


A Good Heart

by EnglandsGray



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (Molly's dad), (not explicit) - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Backstory, Blood, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Drug Use, Drugs, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fatal Injury, Fluff, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Injury, Missing Scene, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Molly Hooper, Pre-Relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform, Terminal Illnesses, post mortem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29093388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglandsGray/pseuds/EnglandsGray
Summary: “A good heart is worth gold, Molls.”Well, maybe he was right about that and maybe he wasn’t.  Maybe he wasn’t because surely a good heart was worth its weight in love as well as gold, but hers didn’t seem to be all that valuable to anyone.Molly Hooper has spent a very long time being there for everyone.  A very long time giving her heart unconditionally.  But can she carry on forever?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 69
Kudos: 87





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Having a go at something I never have before - writing and posting as I go. All because the chance to post this first instalment on the anniversary of the date on which chapter 2 is set was too good to miss! 
> 
> I hope to update regularly. Wish me luck :)
> 
> Being canon-compliant (with the exception of some details of Molly's backstory - centring on her dad and his passing, so not too far from the established story, but also with some exploration of her relationship with other family) it's bound to be angsty, I'm afraid. It isn't, and it won't be, all sadness, though, and I am aiming for that eventual happy ending my sore Sherlolly heart craves <3
> 
> Tags and character tags will be added over time - I will reiterate these in the notes at the start of each chapter. No nasty surprises to come, I promise - and the ratings/warnings will not change.
> 
> All rights and credit for Sherlock, its characters, settings and our dear, darling Molly, to the creators of the series and the BBC.

_“A good heart is worth gold, Molls.”_

Molly could see herself rolling her eyes in her mind and every time she pictured that teenage silliness she felt dreadfully sad. He was so right, her lovely dad.

_“And that’s what you’ve got, my girl.”_

Well, maybe he was right about that and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he wasn’t because surely a good heart was worth its weight in love as well as gold, but hers didn’t seem to be all that valuable to anyone. 

Molly felt the tears coming again, felt the fear and the grief rattle all the way up her spine like a tremor, like something inhuman – bigger than her and absolutely heartless. She clattered the knife onto the board and stepped away.

_“You made it all possible…”_

“I can’t do it.” Molly turned and bent over the kitchen sink, overcome with nausea – beyond the help of tea with lemon.

She was done with half-truths and secrets. Games. _Christ_ , it had never been a game to her. 

Behind her on the worktop, her phone began to vibrate. She blew out a breath, felt the overwhelm begin to dissipate like air from a popped balloon. _Well, obviously_ – someone might need her, she’d best put her heart back in its box. _He’d_ shown her how to do that very effectively over all these years. Perhaps she ought to learn her lesson. In one last flash before she clamped the lid firmly on, her dad’s sad eyes pleaded with her. 

She glanced at the phone, even though it was bound to be Sherlock. He had a sixth sense for when she really didn’t need it, almost as powerful as his ability to disappoint her when she needed that even less. 

Telling herself to get a grip, get on, and get to deciding what she was going to do, where on Earth she would go… whether she could… she picked the knife back up and completely ignored the phone as well as the churning misery in her middle. 

But it rang again. Of course it did. 


	2. Flat-mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No additional tags :)

30th January 2010

When he followed Mike Stamford into the room a few weeks before, Molly thought, for one mad second, that this was it. The magic moment like in a book, where something starts and, in the end, the plain but not unattractive young-ish woman never feels lonely again. Because she has someone, now. Now and forever. That’s what she saw when she first looked into those green, see-under-your-skin eyes, across the bagged-up body on the slab.

Mike was saying something about special dispensation, clearance, access all areas, or something; which vaguely registered as a bit James Bond for an ordinary Wednesday in January. But Molly was transfixed. _Look at his face. That hair. So tall… wish I could wear long coats like that. Wouldn’t mind wearing that one…_

She pulled herself together when Mike chirruped a chirpy “All right, then? I’ll leave you in Dr Hooper’s capable hands!” 

Quite suddenly, she was alone with this tall, dark and handsome stranger (and really, this man was surely the one in whose honour the phrase was dreamed up.) She sort of knew he had a good reason to be here from Mike’s chatter, even though no-one wearing a suit but not an ID badge usually came anywhere near the morgue. Apart from the police ( _that must be it, he must be with the police_ – _ideal_ \- _could probably get some more information out of Inspector Lestrade – Greg - next time he comes in_.) But she did rather wish she’d paid a bit more attention as to exactly why he was here, exactly what he needed her capable hands for… She busied herself, feeling her face reach boiling point under that stare. _Thank God for concealer! Is there a lipstick in my bag..?_

“May I?”

 _Oh my…_ Eyes, body _and_ voice. What was that cheesy line in the vampire books? _My own personal brand of heroin_. _Good Lord_. Molly turned to look at him and he smiled at her, having moved absolutely silently over to the slab while her back was turned. Molly’s stomach flipped a bit, she felt oddly caught, like there was something fastened at either end to the two of them, something else forceful, like gravity, in the middle. Confidence radiated off him and it was as though it was infecting her. In her mind, she was Kristen Stewart, her hair blown back and her dark eyes boring into his, like his ice-pale ones were into her very soul. She still had no bloody idea what he was asking for, but _goodness,_ was he going to get it from her…

“Of course.”

Molly coughed, appalled and brought bumping back down to Earth by the ridiculous squeak which came out of her mouth instead of words. She brought her fist to her mouth, pretended to cough a bit more, trying to think how to cover her stupidity… but he was still staring at her, a slight frown line between his eyebrows, so she had no chance. 

Why wasn’t he laughing at her? No self-deprecating ‘it’s all right, love, I get this all the time’ half-smile? Why did he look… fascinated? 

“’Scuse me,” she said, glad her voice was a bit more normal. “Of course – go ahead.”

She gestured to the body and turned to pick up the file it had come with and thankfully, her attention was soon caught by the information it contained, enough to take the edge off the last few moments of utter turmoil. 

_Mrs Adele Mablethorpe. Eighty-seven. Natural causes. Twelfth of December – hmm, yes, that would explain the smell…_

Molly turned to look, finding that the man at the table had opened the body-bag from the foot end, and was now closely examining the knees of Mrs Mablethorpe, clearly not the least bothered by the odour which some of her workmates would no doubt comment on later even after a deep-clean. _Perhaps not police, then. Special dispensation, access all areas…_ was he some sort of agent?

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, holding the file to her front and stepping over to the slab. “Who did you say you were?”

“I didn’t,” he told Mrs M’s left ankle.

Molly narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to go on. When he didn’t, she felt a slight sting of annoyance. There was no need for rudeness – she was willing to help, but she wasn’t going to be walked over. “Let me rephrase that, then – who are you?”

The man straightened, almost snapped to attention, startling Molly. After another moment considering her, he walked around the table until he was stood in front of her. Up close, he really was rather tall, she had to look up at him. But she wasn’t intimidated – that would be the crashing attraction, she supposed. She felt a new blush rising, but she stood her ground, tipped her chin up, as much to convince herself as anything. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He offered his hand. Molly matched him and they shook hands. 

“Dr…” she began

“Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar, yes, I know.” 

“Well, quite,” Molly said. “And what do you do?”

From a mouse to the Queen in the space of a minute. _Brilliant, Molly._ Sherlock Holmes smiled again, his eyes softening; really quite a lovely expression. 

“Consulting Detective,” he said. 

“What does that mean?” Molly asked, genuinely nonplussed.

The smile widened a bit, crinkling the skin at the outer corners of his eyes. Her hand was still held in his and it felt really tiny, not to mention really safe, enclosed in his long, warm fingers. _Blimey…_

“Today it means I prove this woman was murdered.”

He let her go and Molly felt a rush of cold air fill the void where he had been stood as he whipped around and went back to his examinations. 

“Murdered...?” Molly asked, a little dazed.

“Here.” He pointed to the underside of the woman’s knee and even though Molly went over and had a good look (having shook herself again), it wouldn’t be until a good while later that she would have the faintest idea what on Earth he was on about. 

Hypothermia. That was what made Molly think of that day in the first place. Several weeks had passed and she wasn’t even nearly over it. She closed the journal she had been reading with her morning coffee. A major study was planned, following the discovery Sherlock had made in her mortuary; Adaptation Responses to Cold Stress and Metabolic Changes Following Cold Exposure – Development of Post-mortem Biochemical Investigative Methods. Although his name didn’t appear anywhere. _Typical,_ she thought, _I bet he never gets credit for how brilliant he is._ A couple of hours in the lab that day and not a second glance at the body of Mrs Mablethorpe, nor her copious notes, and Sherlock had proven that she had frozen to death, been effectively thawed, and her murder disguised. In one afternoon, he’d advanced pathological science, cornered a murderer and found justice for someone who could have been just another faceless victim. Made sure what she left behind went to deserving people. Amazed them all. And taken a heart in the process. 

Molly was in love. 

He was a terrible mixture of attentive and dismissive. That was what she had boiled it down to, rather succinctly, she congratulated herself. Because it mattered to her more now than it ever had that she come across, as often as she possibly could, as thoughtful but not overly so. Clever _and_ practical. 

It probably should matter more – her friends said it should matter more – that he commented on her appearance and gave her mixed messages. Clearly didn’t realise when he was being asked out. But that was just it. _He didn’t realise – definitely didn’t realise_. It was hardly a rejection – Molly definitely knew that that looked and felt like. 

_What a difference a day makes – isn’t that how the song goes? So true_. One minute it’s all silence and studious activity in the lab and hushed voices and carefulness in the morgue. Maybe a quick chat at lunchtime, but usually the first non-death-related full sentence she utters every day is to a friend on the phone, or in a bar on Friday night. Now it’s all sound and bonkersness – experiments and police in and out and murder and mayhem! She’s part of something that didn’t exist a few weeks ago – or it did, but just without her.

And then when the quiet does come along – usually in the dead of night, with the light in the lab bright and clean and comforting against the black windows – Molly loves it. Because he’s so often sitting there, warming up the space even when he doesn’t say a word for hours. The odd half-sentence about death is suddenly poetry.

But, _oh yes_ , what a difference just one day can make. Molly barely looked twice at the man with the walking stick when she passed him yesterday to take Sherlock’s coffee. Truth be told, she was a bit preoccupied (a lot preoccupied) with the evils of cheap lipstick and how to be less subtle whilst also being more so. 

But something had changed, Molly could feel it in her waters. And she was so sad, because it hadn’t been good for long enough – she hadn’t had time to enjoy it enough yet. 

She’d brought him a plate of chips up from the canteen tonight, gone specially for a decent americano from the Costa in the concourse as well. But when she pushed the lab door open, beaming like an idiot, excited to spend a long evening with him pouring (largely silently) over whatever investigation he was knee-deep in, holding tight to her teenage-heart the fact that she saw the good heart behind the stand-offish exterior of her brilliant new friend, she found Sherlock standing, finishing putting on his coat.

“Oh, are you…”

“Yes – off to acquire myself a flat-mate.” He walked towards her at the door.

“Oh, well, you should have said if you were…”

He pinched a chip from the plate which was going to be hers, then took hold of the rim of the coffee-cup tucked precariously between her arm and her body, lifting it away and reaching past her to open the door. Molly moved out of the way. 

“Actual coffee – the day gets better and better. Anderson’s on his way in, apparently – narrow escape. Evening.”

He flashed his brow at her as he took a sip of his drink, raised his hand and was off down the corridor as she gawked, stood with her back to an empty lab and dinner for two going cold in her hands.

 _Flat-mate? Since when was he looking for a flat-mate?_ _She_ was looking for a flat-mate – she didn’t need one, really, but she was dangerously close to getting a cat instead… If she’d known…

Molly tipped the contents of the two plates into the bin and placed them on the side above. She felt strangely numb, the silence in the lab was suddenly a bit horrible. It hadn’t ever felt like that before. She liked the quiet - _for God’s sake_ , she worked with dead people the majority of the time and socially-awkward not-dead people the rest of it. This place – this life – was built from anonymity and confidentiality. It had been ideal. She knew better – she ought to know better – than to go looking for the very thing she had run away from before. 

But she’d seen just a glimpse of it in him, and nothing had ever looked more like heaven. 

_Get a grip, woman! It’s not like you’re even friends, really. Maybe rejection looks different coming from someone so different. Anyway, he’ll probably be back tomorrow…_

But as she sat at her desk in the office, pulling up the next file which needed her attention, quietly answering the questions she would have asked him for herself, somehow Molly knew that even if he did come back to the lab tomorrow or the next day or next week – or whenever – he wouldn’t be a lost soul anymore. That would just be her, again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed this first part. Let me know what you think and save me starting talking to the pictures on the walls! ;) #lockdown3.0


	3. Watching Him Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No additional tags.  
> Additional character tags; Tom (Sherlock), Mary Morstan, Janine (Sherlock), Greg Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all :) Hope you're well and hope you enjoy this next chapter. We're a long way since that fateful January, it's now the summer of 2014. More angst here - I promise you a gentler chapter is coming next <3
> 
> Take care, everyone xx

Summer 2014

A particularly bright flashbulb went off somewhere on the opposite side of the gathering of guests, bringing Molly to her senses. She quickly rearranged her face. _Crap_ , she thought, _when that person zooms in, they’ll get an eyeful of my sour-puss face in the background of their lovely photo._ She raised her eyebrows at herself as the official photographer rearranged himself into another bizarre lunge position to take his fiftieth shot of Sherlock with the maid of honour. _Mind you, when isn’t there someone looking miserable in the background of wedding photos?_

She felt a hand on the small of her back. Long-fingered and warm, but careful, just a little bit hesitant. She turned and looked up at Tom, who gave her the sort of smile – full of love and, she suspected, visions of the future – any girl ought to be happy to see on the face of the man she was going to marry. Charlotte at work had been telling Molly about how her and her fiancé had sat by a roaring fire in the country manor where her sister got married, dreaming up the details of their own wedding. Picking colours, comparing cake preferences…

Charlotte and Barney had a dog, too. Molly and Tom sometimes saw them at the pub, chatted about exchange rates and school catchment areas over the house red.

Molly felt her lip twitching as if it wanted to curl. The bridesmaid Molly now had to find out the name of had threaded her arm through Sherlock’s. The smug smile on her face was disgraceful. 

Tom cleared his throat and Molly brought her focus back to him. He picked a stray piece of confetti out of her hair, balanced it on the end of his finger and held it in front of her. A little white paper horseshoe. “Make a wish?” he offered, eyes all puppy-dog and smile all unsure. 

Even when they argued he didn’t get angry. Molly had no idea what his voice sounded like raised. The worst swear word she had ever heard come out of his mouth was ‘bugger’. He would never give her an ultimatum, bless him. The do-or-die drama was all in her own head; she’d written that story for herself. 

While Tom stood there looking at her, the tiniest crease forming between his eyebrows, Molly saw Mary and John walk over to Sherlock and the bridesmaid out of the corner of her eye. John was talking at Sherlock. Mary was giving the woman at his side a sly, conspiratorial look, nudging her arm. 

Molly blinked slowly and sighed, pushed everything down which was threatening to rise up and surround her heart again. She didn’t need it locking away. Especially not for a lost cause. It was time to try her best. She owed Tom that.

She smiled at her fiancé and the relief on his face was heart-breaking. She looked at the little horseshoe, waited a beat like you do before blowing out your birthday candles, then blew it away. Then she threaded her arm into his and cuddled into his side. 

_Charlotte’s absolutely right – absolutely right – weddings do make you all lovey-dovey!_ All Molly could think of doing as she absorbed the atmosphere (and the bubbles) and watched John seeming to be incapable of not being in contact with Mary at all times, Molly found she too couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She wanted to reach up and pull that lovely face down to her for kiss after kiss, wanted to smother him in love, didn’t care who saw. It was all the lovely flowers and beautiful dresses, perfectly fitted suits and waistcoats… perfect gentlemen, attentive and watchful and protective… 

Yes she was embarrassed for Tom and yes she felt a fool herself and - _God_ – it was the most annoying thing ever that she hadn’t sobered up in that blindingly stupid moment but instead the moment Sherlock stood up and started talking. But all of that could take a running jump, now, as far as Molly was concerned. And she bloody was concerned. Greg was out of the room like a shot, John was a coiled spring behind the top table and Sherlock didn’t pass notes for fun. 

Molly knew the signs and she knew she could help, felt it in her bones. She was part of this – she always had been. He needed her, she just didn’t know how yet. But she was still drawn to that brilliance like the proverbial moth and she would be there when he resolved this. And he wouldn’t be guessing (pathetically) for a bit of after-dinner entertainment. He would be putting his life on the line. 

She realised a second late that she needed to play along with the toast. Grabbing her glass she stood, a little shakily, expecting at any second she might have to change course or react - and she would. Sherlock dashed from the room and the muttering started. John followed him. Then Mary. Molly banged her glass down on the table and pushed her chair further away, deciding in the same moment not to put her heels back on so she could go faster…

A hand caught her elbow before she had even moved an inch. Her head snapped from the door Sherlock had gone through to Tom’s face. The desperation she saw there took the wind from her sails in a heartbeat. 

Molly spotted them all, a while later, at the end of the long corridor between the foyer and the loos. Through the open door to the outside they were stood by, she saw an ambulance, watched it pull away. Greg passed her first, his phone to his ear. Molly flattened herself to the wall to get out of his way. He didn’t look at her as he passed. John did, when he came along next; he blew out a breath with his eyebrows raised, looking like a man who needed a drink. Molly turned to Mary and was relieved when her friend took hold of her arm. 

“Everything okay?” Molly asked, trying to keep her tone light.

“It will be,” Mary answered with a small smile.

“What..?” Molly began just as Mary spoke again.

“I’ll tell you later, let’s go and get a drink. You can be my wing-woman while I say sorry a lot of times.”

Mary made to move along the corridor with her towards the sound of the other guests chattering and clinking glasses. But Molly didn’t move, her eyes now over her friend’s shoulder. 

“Sorry..,” Molly said. “I’ll catch you up.”

She smiled at Mary in what she hoped was a reassuring way. Mary didn’t return it and Molly’s tummy dropped a bit. Molly looked at the green diamond-shapes on the brown carpet at their feet and cleared her throat, thinking it would probably be her who would be doing the telling when she eventually sat down with the new Mrs Watson. With another look-of-many-meanings, Mary squeezed her arm and then set off back to the party. 

Sherlock had his phone in his hand and was texting or typing away, still busy when practically everyone else was breathing a sigh of relief and moving on. _Of course_. 

For some reason, Molly looked behind her before starting to walk towards him. _But it’s not for no reason, is it Molly? You promised yourself you were going to try…_

She swallowed, watching Sherlock. He’d clearly finished whatever he had been typing. He lifted his gaze from the phone screen, his mouth downturned at the corners. Then he brought his hand to his face, rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock?” 

He looked up when she said his name. His eyes were still full of the fire she had felt in her very soul back in that lovely bright, flowery room, when she’d watched him working. When she’d watched him pour his heart out. _Oh God._

“Molly…”

How soft his voice was, how familiar, how like it always was when it was just the two of them, melted away every worry and confusion and doubt in her mind and her heart and suddenly, everything was really quite simple. _Just look at him. Something has changed, something is changing, this is a new chapter. I need you, too._

Molly took another step towards him and he dropped the hand holding his phone to his side.

“There you are!” 

_Janine_ appeared outside behind Sherlock. She hitched up her long purple dress and came clacking up the little ramp to the doorway. 

“Well, that was all a bit exciting! Do you ever take the day off?” she asked him, smiling broadly.

“No.”

Sherlock and Molly answered her together. Both he and Janine looked at Molly, although their expressions could not have been more different. Molly felt her cheeks redden instantly and she crossed her arms over her chest, looked down at the ground. 

“Right…” Janine said. Then, turning back to Sherlock, she put her hand on his arm. “Look, come out here for a bit, will you? There’s at least three candidates we haven’t covered yet.”

Molly watched, astounded, as she linked her arm through Sherlock’s again and he let himself be steered through the open door. The merest flick of his eyes back in Molly’s direction and he was gone. She turned and walked quickly back in the other direction.

_Don’t you dare cry, Hooper. It’s your own stupid fault._

Her and Tom did sit either side of a fireplace, though it wasn’t lit, being summertime. Tom got her a drink, people milled around them in the perfect people-watching way. They’d even got this place on their potential venue list. But they didn’t talk.

She saw him go. Of course she saw him go. If he’s in the same room as her there are only ever a few seconds between her looking at him and looking again. 

Listening to Sherlock play the violin and watching him watch John and Mary had really been quite beautiful. Molly felt proud-tearful, relived, just so bloody pleased he’d got through it all, and not only done it but done John proud. Done himself proud – wearing his heart so openly for once – although, obviously, he would never see it like that. For a few blissful moments, Molly’s heart stopped aching and she just enjoyed him, them – them all. 

Then, John’s hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck, his other around his wife. Beaming smiles all around. A unit, as close as close could be, the very centre of a whole universe everyone else span around. That was the trouble, though. Orbiting wasn’t being part. Having a go at being a substitute for John wasn’t the same as being a welcome addition to him. 

_I love you, Mary. And frankly, in a way, I’d quite like to be you._

There it was again, that horrible hollow ache under her ribs. Almost but not quite there. Needed, but not quite wanted. A friend. But not family. 

Molly watched Sherlock as he made his way across the crowded room to the door, until the very last second she could still see him. _Please, Molly,_ Tom had said to her when he caught her elbow at the table. _Please stay,_ he meant. She felt it, though – and this time it was stronger than the pull to chase after them all before. Stronger than the urge to go and put herself between Sherlock and whatever danger he perceived. Stronger than her want to comfort him when he was wondering exactly the same as she was – where did they belong, now? 

A force like gravity between them. Stronger than reason.

But.

She made a promise. To Tom. And when she did that he promised her something in return. The chance to belong, to be someone’s family, their whole world. _For pity’s sake_ , she’d stabbed the poor man with a fork earlier and here he was, shuffling to the beat like the selfless, unguarded, gorky, lovely bloke he was, wrinkling his nose, smiling and looking at her – right at her. All devotion and hope. A good heart.

Not a fierce one. Not an unchained, limitless, powerful one which was wounded in such a way that made Molly desperate to hold it…

She took a breath. Let the cheesy music in, let it be louder than a waltz on the violin. She lifted her arms towards Tom and reminded herself to be grateful – so grateful – that he was ready to step straight into them. 

Not that long after, though, Molly found out what Tom’s voice sounded like raised. The less she protested, the more upset he became. Her heart just wasn’t in it. For the most part, she was quiet as a mouse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She would have gone after him, if she could...
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	4. Holding the Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: fluff  
> Additional character tags: Rosemund "Rosie" Mary Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all - happy Galentine's Day for today, Valentine's Day for tomorrow and happy Saturday anyhow!
> 
> Here's a couple of soft and fluffy scenes set at the beginning of The Six Thatchers (when everything is still nice!). Really hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think :)
> 
> While I'm here - if you fancy some more canon-compliant pre-relationship Sherlolly set around this same time, I cannot recommend highly enough the wonderful Somewhere for Safe Keeping by 3seconds <3
> 
> Stay safe (and warm) all xx

Spring 2015

“Radix pedis diabolic,” Molly said.

“Yes?”

“Traces in the nostril hair. Another million points to you.”

“Naturally.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone screen, smug smirk in place, and for just a fraction of a fraction of a second, Molly could have sworn time stood still. Or rather, it was like she could feel extra time being dolloped on top of this moment like clotted cream on a cornet. 

That’s how it had felt ever since he turned up in the lab, completely unannounced, four days after they had said their goodbyes over the phone. Her on her mobile in the office, him in prison. Him quiet but stoic, her in a thousand pieces ready to shatter as soon as the call ended and she was finally finished with having to hold herself together and pretend. Molly hadn’t made it halfway out of the fug of denial when he was suddenly stood in front of her again. She’d stopped dead in her tracks, dropped a stack of papers to the floor, and burst into tears. 

He’d taken her for an ice-lolly, even though she could have done with a gin. They’d sat on a bench in the quadrant, flippin’ freezing, huddled in their coats and scarves, overtaken for a few moments mid frozen-snack by unstoppable giggles. Dizzy – well, Molly was at least, from the emotional rollercoaster. 

From having to contemplate coming to terms with him being gone forever, to now having him nearer to her, and more often, than he had been for a long time. Nothing new, as such, just work and at hers. But when they’d been together this last few weeks, the time was… richer, somehow, and slower. More dollopy, less rushed. Warmer. For Molly, the closeness and contentment in it was, given what they’d just been through, the only thing that would do. For Sherlock, though? She couldn’t even begin to imagine the how’s or the wherefores, whether he felt the change or not. Moments like this made figuring it out seem less important. On the surface it was all no less complicated, but deeper down it was the purest and most lovely it – whatever _it_ was – had ever been. 

Just then, when Sherlock bestowed her with a self-congratulatory smile as prize for her investigative work – and help – they were alone in John and Mary’s front room, surrounded by balloons and soft toys. Bottle-washing, nappy-binning and kettle-boiling had called, all at once, and Molly had been left literally holding the baby, sat on the settee. Molly gently swayed herself to help the little one drift off (which, she was completely amazed to say, seemed to be working) and smiled at Sherlock. His smile actually faded a bit, but there was nothing sad in his eyes. There was something there, that same something making everything simpler, wrapping itself around him and her and filling up the room even more effectively than the gentle sunlight through the windows and baby-powder smell in the air. Molly’s heart swelled as their eyes stayed linked across the room. _Godparent. Godparent. Godparents. Family_. 

“All falling into place.”

“I’m sorry...?” His voice was quiet. He swallowed.

“The case,” Molly said. “The poisoning?”

“Poisoning. Yes.” Sherlock’s hands, holding his phone between them, had dropped level with his stomach. Now, he raised them hesitantly, seeming to waver between things to focus on, before settling back into the near-constant typing. 

“Good,” Molly leant backwards carefully, settling herself with the first baby she had ever comforted to sleep. Their Goddaughter. “Good.” 

“Shhh-shh-shh!”

Molly grimaced and froze, four steps from the top landing. “Sorry,” she whispered.

She tiptoed up the last few treads like something from a comedy sketch, waiting for an unnaturally loud and drawn out squeak to rise up from a floorboard which had never done that before (but it would now, of course). 

“It’s a bit early for her nap, isn’t it?” Molly said once she was near enough for Sherlock to hear.

He turned and walked into the living room, camel-coloured housecoat swishing behind him in that way which always made Molly want to giggle. He pushed the door further open as he moved and Molly followed him, peering around it at the settee.

“Ah, I see.”

John and Mary were laid at opposite ends of the leather sofa, fast asleep. Snoring gently and in unison. Molly smiled. 

“Yes. It will be mine and your sleep schedule which is disrupted next,” Sherlock said, at which Molly almost choked on nothing.

He looked at her and for a second seemed taken aback to find her staring up at him. “The Watsons are staying here tonight. I thought you and I could cover the late shift with ‘the sleep terrorist’…?”

Molly smiled and let out a quick, nervous “oh,” before recovering herself. 

She held out the coolbox containing Sherlock’s most recent requests, which he took from her, then she turned and spotted Rosie sat in her seat on John’s armchair. The little love had recently discovered her hands and their marvellous capabilities. Her beloved rattle was several feet away on the floor and her chubby little fists were grappling with each other gently, much to Rosie’s delight. She was smiling away, completely oblivious to the four grown up lives (and sleep schedules) at the mercy of her every last adorable whim. Molly knelt in front of Rosie as she took off her coat, cooing a hello and being rewarded with a dribbly-gorgeous smile. Having reminded her Goddaughter that she could eat her all up, oh yes she could, Molly scooped her out of the seat and cuddled her in close as she wandered into the kitchen to make a cuppa. 

“I’m the wrong shape!”

“I’m the wrong person!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, she loves you!”

“I amuse her – I am a clown, not a comfort blanket.”

“Look, she’s going to wake them up in a minute, for goodness sake…”

“Mary will already be awake. Instinctive hormonal reactions in the supplementary motor area, inferior frontal regions…”

“Just take her while I get the Infacol.”

Molly gave him no choice, turning Rosie around and laying her straight onto his chest as she pushed past in the hallway, making him take hold of the really very upset baby on instinct. Sherlock had been dead right, of course. It was 1.00 a.m. and they were wide awake, having a whispered argument in their pyjamas. Debating the merits of a warm-but-boobless surface on which to lay if one was a colic-y baby. 

Molly blew out a frustrated sigh and rubbed her face. She was knackered from a very long day at work anyway, hadn’t expected the night shift at home (well, at her friend’s home) and, quite frankly, baby-wrangling was turning out to be the steepest learning-curve ever. The others could joke as much as they liked about Sherlock being good training for that (and this evening Molly had certainly felt the urge more than once to plonk _him_ in the bed and let him gripe himself to sleep) but the reality of life with a three month old was that it was jolly hard. Even when said three month old was outnumbered four to one. Molly chuckled wryly to herself as she clicked the kettle on. At least there _was_ a team. A village. A weird one, but still. 

She grabbed the anti-colic-drop bottle from the table in the living room, poured boiling water into two empty mugs, remembered at the last second to stir a spoon of instant coffee into each (was baby-brain contagious?) and padded towards Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Rosie had stopped crying, and Molly heaved another sigh imagining the hour-long (or more) playtime they would have to get through now the baby had presumably woken herself up completely. Mary had texted Molly on a few such middle-of-the-night occasions in the past. Molly had quietly enjoyed the camaraderie flowing down the line from the fluorescent-lit lab to the Watson’s cosy flat and back, even if she wasn’t actually there in person. 

_Like parents (and Godparents) like daughter; of course Rosie’s a night-owl._

When she peeped into the darkened room, she saw that Rosie had in fact fallen fast asleep, starfish-style and completely relaxed, on Sherlock’s front. He was reclined against the headboard, feet stretched out in front of him, eyes closed and fingers clasped together across Rosie’s back. 

Molly let out a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding and experienced, and then dismissed, a slight but nevertheless ridiculous feeling of disappointment that her evening (early morning) with Sherlock had been cut short, all within the time it took to set her mug down on the bedside table. Ready to be collected on her way to the settee in a minute. 

Sherlock sighed softly as Molly moved around the end of the bed to take his coffee and the Infacol to his bedside table.

“See, told you. You didn’t need me after all,” she said, quietly. 

“I do,” he replied, his eyes still closed. When he opened them and looked straight at her, Molly was still leant slightly over from putting the mug down. Heavy-lidded and dark, Molly felt as she always did, that she could tip into those eyes and be lost forever. But that feeling had almost become manageable nowadays, it didn’t take her feet from under her like it once did. _Blimey, though,_ she thought, frozen just a few inches above him, her heart fluttering, _I’ve never seen him look like this._ The look in his relaxed features was so deeply soothing, Molly felt instantly sleepy. His eyes never – absolutely never – lost their concentrated spark, but just then they looked… content. Beautifully content. 

_We’re here. We’re safe. He’s keeping us safe. He didn’t see this life coming, none of us did. But we do matter, more than anything._

Molly smiled quickly, cleared her throat and straightened up, worried that her butter-soft heart would melt completely and she would do something she would… well, not regret… but something a bit unwise. 

As she turned around again she spotted his phone on the dressing table. _Ahh…_ She laughed at herself. She picked it up and turned back around, brandishing the handset at Sherlock who raised his brow and gave a lopsided smile. 

As she placed it down next to his coffee, Sherlock closed his eyes again and said, sleepily, “I’d be lost without my pathologist.”

Molly chuckled at him, shaking her head. _You’re a horrid tease, Sherlock Holmes, but you know damn well that it’s true – you would be lost without us. Your heart always had more room in it that you gave it credit for._

“Don’t you forget it,” she said. She picked up her cup as she got to the door. “Will you be all right?” Molly knew he would stay awake all night rather than risk Rosie falling or ending up lost under the covers, but she couldn’t help but check.

“Why?” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her questioningly, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going?”

Molly gestured behind her, surprised by his sudden alertness into awkwardness. “Er… the living room. The, er… settee, you know? Sleep?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, settling himself back against the pillows and closing his eyes again. _Oh, what now?_ Molly thought, exhaustedly. _If he thinks I’m dissecting that pair of lungs for him at this time of night, he can…_

“Just stay here, with us.”

Molly stared at his right hand as he lifted it from cradling Rosie and patted the sheets next to him, then linked his fingers together once more. 

“What? You mean… sleep in your bed. With you?”

“Yes, Molly, that is exactly what I mean. It is comfortable, the settee is not, and you are exhausted. Lay down.”

Molly hesitated, raised the cup to her lips to give herself a moment. The smell of the coffee brought her to her senses, helpfully, and she realised she definitely didn’t need to add caffeine into the sleepless mix alongside laying next to Sherlock Bloody Holmes. _Oh God._ But how could it mean anything when Rosie was there? They were still on duty. Practicality, that’s all. And she certainly was exhausted, the settee had never been that appealing. 

She put the cup down again and carefully pulled back the sheet and duvet. Sherlock was laid on top of it at the other side, so actually – surely - it wouldn’t feel like sleeping with him anyway. Molly slid her legs under the covers, having never thought to consider how one does that so as not to look like an idiot. Had she ever worried she looked like a new-born giraffe getting into bed with Tom? 

She daren’t lay facing Sherlock, though, as it turned out a few seconds later that it very much did feel - every last little bit - like sleeping with him, even with her back to him. She could feel the warmth of him, the closeness. The sheets and pillows smelt of him, of Baker Street. He was very still, but even so, Molly felt hyper-aware of every tiny movement in the mattress. It was a sensory overload and her heart was racing. 

“Comfortable?”

She took the deepest breath she could manage and blew it out, shuffling the pillow and settling deeper into the - very comfortable - mattress. 

“Yes, thank you.”

So prim. She rolled her closed eyes. 

The bout of nerves gradually slipped away and Molly felt herself slowly unwind. Felt herself sinking deeper… _surprising, really… hadn’t expected to be able to relax… here… like this… but then it is going on 2.00 a.m… and this is lovely… Sherlock’s bed… goodness… feels like the same kind of mattress as mine…_

Molly surfaced a bit as a thought suddenly occurred.

“How do I know,” she said, hearing her voice slow and yawn-ish, “ that your friends didn’t take a copy of my front door key… when you sent them to get my pyjamas and toothbrush?”

She heard Sherlock sigh before he answered. “You know because you also know that they know me.”

“… that didn’t make any sense…”

“Go to sleep, Molly.”

Molly smiled. “Good night, Sherlock.” She yawned, felt herself drifting again. “…. this is nice… it’s nice when we’re… all… together...”

“Good night, Molly. And I won’t forget it.”

“… hmmm…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> I should just say - I have drawn on my own experiences of soothing a uncomfy baby here, but of course this will be hugely different from baby to baby and from family to family. Sadly, sleeplessness seems to be fairly universal! Sending strength if that's where you're at right now <3


	5. New Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: illness, terminal illness, (Molly's dad), drugs/drug use, injury, hurt/comfort  
> Additional character tags: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Very much hope you're safe and well, wherever you are <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far. In this new chapter, we're still within the realm of The Six Thatchers and, not unlike that episode, there is lightness but there is encroaching darkness. I feel for them all in these moments on screen, but I feel especially for our lovely, dependable Molly. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Do let me know if strawberry cremes are also your favourite ;)

_1996_

_“There you are. Come and sit with me, love.”_

_Molly stepped into the thick-carpeted living room in her socks, pulling on the sleeve of her cardigan as she went, nervous with the person she loved most in the whole world and hating the feeling._

_He pointed to the sideboard. “There’s a few left in the tin if you want one – mostly toffees, mind you. Does anyone actually like those?”_

_Molly didn’t mind the runt of the litter that was the humble toffee penny, but her favourite was the strawberry crème, just like her dad. She shook her head, trying to smile. She’d been stood by the door for a few moments before he noticed her. Through the mirror above the fireplace, she watched his lovely, laughter-lined face cloud over and she worried, so much, that that heavy almost-darkness would hang over her forever. Afterwards. When there was no one left, no one on her side._

_“You all right, Molls?”_

_She brightened her smile as she sat next to him on the settee and put her hand in his on his knee. He rubbed her arm, the gesture so familiar it made her heart ache._

_“Are you?” she asked him instead._

_“I will be, my girl – you know that don’t you?” His pale blue eyes were no different, especially now he had magicked every trace of sadness from them. How did he do that? Was there time for him to teach her? Of course not, you can’t teach being the best person in the world._

_“Mm-hmm.” Molly didn’t trust herself to speak. There wasn’t long now, the specialist said, probably these next few days would be the last at home._

_“I know you’re frightened, love,” her dad told her. “But I’m not. We’ll be all right, I promise. You look after yourself – look after what’s important. Never lose sight of that, and you’ll be just fine."_

19 years later.

Molly crept across the carpet in her socks, holding her phone as well as the baby monitor and Rosie’s bottle tight to her front, silently praying to the gods of Godparenting to not to drop anything or stub her toe. John and Mary had helpfully put a little cross of micropore tape on the floor where there was a squeaky floorboard, so she could avoid it as she made her escape. 

Inching the nursery door closed a few moments later, she breathed a sigh of relief. Rosie was sound asleep in her cot. _Now_. At the end of a two-hour battle in which she fought valiantly against sleep until the last. _He’d better have the sense to call for a bottle of wine,_ she thought, opening her silenced phone in the dark hallway to check he hadn’t sent another message.

12:36:

_I will be there by 18:00. Craig says ‘hi’, for some reason. SH_

_14:05:_

_Will be late. Case hotting up. Conciliatory takeaway courtesy of reward money. SH_

Molly rolled her eyes as she made her way through to the kitchen. She doubted very much it was her he was thinking of when it came to discovering the whereabouts of some long lost pearl. As if he was even thinking about reward money! All he wanted was to chuck the thing in his brother’s face. One-upmanship on a global-espionage scale. _Honestly!_ Molly was glad she was an only child. 

He was indeed late. Six p.m. had come and very much gone in a rush of feeds and baby-gym and In The Night Garden and endless walks around the flat pointing out the same things she pointed out every time. _Like building a mind palace,_ she’d thought to herself as she bobbed Rosie on her front and helped her touch the birds on the wallpaper, _I should start listing capital cities as we go around._ They _were_ building something, though. Memories. Sweet and gentle and gone-in-a-blur moments, just the two of them.

Lovely little moments which were even lovelier in post-bedtime hindsight were great, but still, she wouldn’t have minded the help. And the company. 

Molly clicked the kettle on at the same time as the dishwasher. She turned around and surveyed the carnage that was the living room with a sigh, resolving to open the bag of Roses Mary had left for her (starting with the strawberry crèmes, obviously) to help her build up the strength to tackle it. It was 10.00 p.m. _No doubt Sherlock’s evening is turning out a lot more interesting than mine._

By 11:30 p.m. Molly was slumped on the settee in her pyjamas, the bag of chocolates half-full and a neat stack of pretty jewel-coloured papers beside it on the coffee table. Her cup of tea had gone cold out of habit. There was a documentary playing quietly to itself on the telly – David Attenborough’s voice lulling her towards sleep and even deeper into memories of her dad, who had always liked dinosaurs. Or dinosaur programs, at least, and books. _Gosh, how many times did he take me to see Dippy? I should take Rosie._ She smiled to herself, imagining walking around the magnificently grand and comfortingly fusty halls of the Natural History Museum, Rosie in her arms and Sherlock at her side. _We’ll take her to the Hunterian, too, when she’s a bit bigger…_ She checked her phone. Nothing. She knew better nowadays than to act on – or give too much headroom to – the faint squirm of discomfort low in her belly, but she suspected she would never train herself out of it. 

Her phone landing with a thunk onto the floor beside the settee woke her up. She rubbed her eyes and half sat up, taking a moment to remember where on Earth she was. She snatched up the monitor before her phone, pressing it to her ear to make sure she could hear the white-noise machine in Rosie’s room to convince herself the monitor hadn’t switched off and the baby who could wake the dead with her screams hadn’t somehow been doing so for an hour without Molly realising. Summoning Social Services by telepathy into the bargain. Thankfully, all seemed to be well and sleepy. Molly’s shoulders ached when she stood, she stretched and decided to head up to bed in the spare room. Picking up her phone, she illuminated the screen and was disappointed, and just that little bit more disconcerted, by the fact that Sherlock still hadn’t been in touch. 

Molly sat bolt upright in bed. Instantly awake and alert, she threw the duvet back and swung her legs out of bed, straining her ears to pick out the exact whereabouts of the person crashing about downstairs. She grabbed her phone as she quickly but quietly left the bedroom and headed for Rosie’s nursery. As she passed the bannisters, she tuned in to what she could now hear more clearly, unlocking her phone and pressing Sherlock’s name, her heart pounding in her chest. What could she pick up in Rosie’s room to use to defend them? 

“John?!” The voice was rough, panicked. 

“Sherlock?”

Molly rushed down the stairs and switched on the main light at the bottom. Sherlock was stood in the kitchen, leaning heavily on the worktop, one hand covering his eyes. A dining chair was laid on its back on the floor, several photo-frames lay scattered where a shelf had obviously been swiped clear, and the leftover chocolates were strewn across the carpet, the rug under the table rucked up. 

“Sherlock, what on Earth?” she rushed over to him. When she got there he lowered his hand and she saw his left eye socket was horribly bruised. “Oh God… did you disturb them? Did they attack you? Where are they now?”

She whipped around, her eyes on the staircase – what if they were still in the house. _Rosie!_

“Molly,” Sherlock grabbed her arm as she went to move away. “Is John… is John back?”

“What?”

“John! Is John here?” Sherlock’s eyes were wild, desperate and… Molly’s stomach fell. 

“Sherlock, what have you taken?”

“Doesn’t matter…”

“It bloody does!”

“Molly – is John or Mary here?”

“No, Sherlock, they’re away for the night.”

“No…” He covered his eyes again, his hip colliding with the cupboard. 

Molly blew out a breath hoping it would ease the tightness of adrenaline and anger, which of course it didn’t. 

“Sit down before you fall down. Sherlock. I’m checking Rosie.”

She heard the scrape of a chair on the kitchen floor and the thump of a weight making contact with the table as she went back upstairs, checking every door and window as she went. _Nope, just him. Christ._

When she gathered herself a bit and came back down, having rubbed Rosie’s back for a while to help her drift back off from her fitful fidgeting, Molly found Sherlock stood in the kitchen. Having removed his coat and jacket, he was finishing a pint glass of water and seemed calmer. He turned to her as she approached, looking about as far from contrite as possible, and Molly readied herself, annoyance and unease vying for position in her middle. She raised her brow. Sherlock sighed.

“Have you heard from John?”

“Don’t you think you should stick to answers rather than questions?”

“In a moment, I promise,” he paused. The scarily intense quality in his eyes had faded. “Have you?”

“No. I haven’t heard from anyone.”

Sherlock’s gaze fixed on something other than her, something not in the room and Molly waited, crossing her arms over her midriff, drawing her cardi around herself. After a few moments, Sherlock’s eyes came back to hers. He pressed his lips together. His hand lifted towards her and he took a breath as if to speak, but he reeled, almost staggered, and Molly caught the glass out of his hand first and then his arm to steady him. A sound which was something like frustration, something like absolute misery came from him as she guided him back to the chair his coat was over the back of. He winced horribly as he sat, his hand leaving her shoulder and wrapping around his ribs. 

“Sherlock,” Molly made her voice level, crouching down to get into his eyeline. “Tell me what’s happened.” 

Molly heard the shower turn on, heard the cabinet door close. She patted Rosie’s back in the slightly firmer way she had learnt to as she carried her through to the kitchen, deconstructed the milk bottle with one hand, then rinsed and plopped all its little pieces into the sterilising bath. Watery morning sunlight filled the room, which was neat and tidy again, tea mugs washed, dried and put away, overnight bag packed and ready by the front door. Chocolates in the cupboard. 

Molly stood by the sink. Rosie cooed in her ear. Godmother cuddled Goddaughter with a frightened intensity, surrounded by a quietness and normality which was a crumbly façade. 

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock came down the stairs a little gingerly. Molly wasn’t the least bit surprised. His torso was black and blue (or would be later), covered in grazes and scratches and several of his ribs were obviously bruised. They’d used up all the Watson’s frozen veg trying to ease them and minimise swelling while he told her everything that had happened in Reading and then back in London. 

Another great adventure whirling around them, shattering their peace and threatening their world, all while Molly lay dozing on a settee in Camberwell, full of chocolate and visions of daytrips. 

And in the centre of the vortex, a young girl with a lot to lose. 

Sherlock looked at Molly across the Watson’s living room. She knew there was a plea in her eyes, she hoped he read it. It had been hard enough to convince him to stay and put his head down for a couple of hours. Telling him he’d be better off not looking drugged when he went to see his brother covering up her determination to watch him for signs of concussion or reaction to whatever the f… whatever Mary gave him. Molly took a deep breath and blew it out. 

Ready apart from his coat, Molly could see he was keen to leave, to put plans in motion. She kept her eyes on his. A moment passed, then Sherlock’s shoulders dropped a little, his brow relaxed and he walked over to where she was sat on the settee and held out his hands for Rosie. Molly handed the baby over, pulling her feet up under her as she watched Sherlock move slowly around the room, gently shushing Rosie where she lay on his shoulder, beginning to drift off. The air seemed to Molly as if it was shimmering, full up once again with something greater than them. Fear gripped her heart and whatever Sherlock said or didn’t say, Molly knew he was in as deep shock as she was. The Game, all of a sudden, had new rules. 

He’d be gone in a few minutes and Molly had no idea when she would next see him, though she hoped she would be able to help somehow. Angry and upset and conflicted as she was, she did want to help. He’d said sorry for the night before and she’d said it was all right. He'd explained and she'd listened. Molly watched him, thinking that if he’d got everything he needed, he’d already be onto these unknown next steps, not standing in the living room holding Rosie. Adventure called, but here he was, searching Molly’s face for answers to questions he never asked outright. 

_This is your heart, Sherlock. You need to listen to it._

“There are more important things than solving the puzzle, Sherlock,” Molly chose to say.

The set of his jaw changed, just a bit. “Solving the puzzle, as you put it, will save someone I love,” he said, and Molly’s heart constricted at that word. “Does that not justify it?”

“And you know it will save her, do you?” Molly asked him, her voice sharper than she intended. She got to her feet, closed her eyes for a breath, pushed down on the rising emotion. “You can’t control everything, Sherlock.” A pause. His eyes never left her. “I’m frightened… you’ll…”

“What? Fail?”

Molly hated the look that flashed across his face. “No,” she said. “You could never do that. No matter what happens, you could never let them down…”

A chill ran across Molly’s skin. Her dad’s magic trick had been to warm his face and eyes, make himself all cheerfulness and openness. Sherlock was like him. Except he transformed himself cold, closed himself down and put up walls. As the moment broke, Molly pressed her lips together, kept her eyes down and took Rosie carefully when he gestured for her to. He was speaking as he put on his coat, all confident now, tone clipped and decisive, but Molly kept her back to him while she laid Rosie in the basket, trying to hold the tears in just long enough. She didn’t need to hear what Sherlock Holmes had to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, lovely people. 
> 
> Take care xx


	6. Arm's Length

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional character tags: Molly Hooper's Mother, Molly Hooper's Nana (memory), Original Characters
> 
> Additional tags: Childhood Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all :)
> 
> Hope you're well. Hope you're seeing even just a little of springtime on the horizon.
> 
> The lows are low for Molly at the moment. In this chapter, I've had a look at the idea of her having isolated herself from family, why that might have happened. Hard to find lightness for any of them at this point in the series, but I can feel at least a little closeness for her and Sherlock to come in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading up to now. Hope you enjoy this new chapter.
> 
> Stay safe, all xx

A couple of weeks later

“No. No, of course not. No…”

This was all they ever did, one making ridiculous suggestions, the other reassuring in the negative. What was the god’s honest point? 

Molly dodged in and out of shoppers, holding her phone to her ear instead of throwing it (as she quite fancied doing), heading for the last place she wanted to be on a crazy-busy Saturday lunchtime.

“Listen, I need to go, I’m just at Harrods now. I’ll get your tea and everything and see you tomorrow at…”

“Oh, there’s no need for that, I went yesterday.”

Molly stopped dead in her tracks. Someone bumped into her shoulder and told her to watch where she was going even though she wasn’t the one going anywhere. She couldn’t believe her ears.

“You went… you were in London yesterday?”

“Yes. How else do you imagine I got my Earl Grey, by magic?”

“You…” Molly cleared her throat to steady her voice. “What about tomorrow, do you still want to meet up?”

“No of course not, Molly – weren’t you listening? I am back at home now and I have several prior engagements for tomorrow.”

“Such as meeting me?” Molly hated the bratty tone of her voice, hated that this was all they ever did.

“Oh, here we go again with the dramatics. Got to dash, telephone me when you’re in a better frame of mind – and when you’ve got yourself that promotion. You will remember not to…”

“No, Mum. Bye.”

Molly hung up the phone. Her eye was immediately drawn to a very elegant woman, a stranger, in her sixties, wearing a long cream-coloured coat and leather boots. Her arm was threaded through another woman’s, unmistakably her daughter, equally beautifully dressed. They giggled, their heads almost together, as they skipped up to the Harrods door, flushed with happiness and the joy of spending time in each other’s company. A doorman opened it for them and they swished past, out of sight. 

Molly turned around and walked away, back towards the tube station and work, raising her phone in her hand again and almost pressing Sherlock’s name, but deciding against it at the last second. 

Molly had thought of her family life, her childhood, as really quite ordinary. Her Mum didn’t work after Molly was born and she had a busy social life which she let Molly be a part of when she was little. All afternoon-teas and dresses and lipstick and ‘isn’t she precious?’ Molly could remember feeling like a princess. Her dad – her lovely dad – had been a painter and decorator and he had worked extremely hard, but was always home at tea time and around to take her out at the weekend while her Mother slept through ‘one of her heads’. 

Molly didn’t have a big circle of friends. She enjoyed school and was good at it, and naturally that lead to a bit of isolation. She understood – she knew she wasn’t much fun. But she had a couple of nice friends and didn’t feel lonely, really. 

Molly was seventeen when her dad died of cancer. A hideous time which should have seemed better because it was mercifully short, but Molly would only ever look back and wish she’d had even one more afternoon with him. He was her guardian angel. When he was gone, everything went wrong.

It started with an overheard argument. Molly stood in the hallway while her mum and nana (her dad’s mum) had been having a vicious argument in the kitchen of her family home. The funeral had been a week before, probate was well underway (Molly’s nana had insisted she understand the process, helped her to see that doing so un-fogged it all). Her nana – a gentle soul with a fierce heart and Molly’s second favourite person in the world after her dad – said some dreadful things to Molly’s mum, accused her of all sorts and finally, slamming the door so hard the glass shattered, she stormed from the house for the last time.

At first Molly had clung to her mum (in every way apart from physically, as Harriet didn’t like that anymore) and tried to forget what her nana had said. ‘ _Social-climber’. ‘Gold-digger’. ‘Heartless’. ‘Neglectful’._ Molly just couldn’t understand it. But then she went to university to begin her medical training and happened to end up in a shared house with an brilliant bunch of people who treated each other like siblings and included her. Listening to them talk about their lives and their families, Molly began to see the cracks in her own upbringing, the coldness which only went away when her dad was there, the pervasive strained atmosphere, made worse when her mother’s calendar was empty and worse still when her dad didn’t seem to be able to do anything about that. Molly had never understood how he possibly could have helped there – he did nothing but work, in the house and out of it. Why was it his fault his wife’s life was ‘unbearably dull’?

One freezing December weekend in her first term at uni, Molly had got the train to the coast and turned up on her nana’s doorstep, soaked to the skin and raw inside and out. Molly had asked for the truth and been given it, gently, only the facts and with none of the embellishment any furious and heartbroken mother would be entitled to add. Molly’s nana was connected to a very wealthy, highly influential family though her work as a private secretary. Her lifestyle and her earnings meant her only son, Molly’s dad, hadn’t had to work. He had met Harriet at a society party, fallen head over heels and married young. There had been a few years of social-whirl, which was what Harriet had been after, but Arthur wanted to work – especially once Molly arrived. He wanted to provide for his family. As Harriet became more and more cross and despondent at the decreasing prospects of her future, so Violet (Molly’s nana) pulled away, disappointed in the woman and, also, afraid her instability might harm her employers, whose work was incredibly sensitive and who had looked after her and treated her and her son like family. A downward spiral began, which Molly’s dad diligently protected her from for well over a decade. The final straw for Harriet had come when it transpired that her husband had put the majority of his estate into trust for Molly, followed swiftly by the discovery that Violet had done the same. Having put up with years of being denied the high life she had expected, Harriet found she couldn’t even make good of all that with the Hooper money. 

Violet had been there for Molly, but for just one year longer than her only child, before she had to leave Molly as well. 

There had never been a fight or ultimatum, Molly’s mum had simply allowed her daughter to slip through her fingers. Molly stayed in London, extended and extended her beloved studies and found herself. Discovered friendship was as powerful as family and, often, less heart-breaking. Harriet re-married, a bloke who had a high-up job at the water board, salary and cars and expenses-paid business trips and a cousin who was a Lord. 

Molly stayed the hell away. The people who loved her were gone, the one remaining member of her family didn’t even bother telling her only daughter she was in the same city for what would have been her only visit this year. Well, the only one Molly knew about. In reality, Harriet probably drove past Bart’s every month, content that her child was making her own way without bothering her, and might possibly become head of department in the near future. Molly was a dinner party conversation snippet and someone to control over the phone. 

Her mother was, in short, not someone who deserved the tears which ran down Molly’s cheeks, hot and unstoppable and full of grief. How many times had Molly hid in this storage cupboard, pouring her heart out to no one? 

_For Christ’s sake, Molly. Pull yourself together!_

Ten minutes later, and five minutes early, she knocked on Dr Whitstable’s office door, pushed it open with a smile and appreciated the firm handshake from the woman behind the desk in front of her.

Sherlock had asked for five bodies to be wheeled out in the morgue. The circumstances of each death were entirely different, as far was anyone was concerned, which of course made it perfectly logical to Molly that they should be of interest to him. Moriarty had always had the horrible tendency to turn up where he was least expected. Although, to be fair, that didn’t really narrow it down now, given that he was dead. She paused in her work on the slab at the far end of the room and watched Sherlock inspect five left thumbs, five right shoulders, five earlobes, five foot-soles… the last word in methodical, if only you had any idea what the method actually was. Molly smiled, almost able to imagine them six years younger, the world outside one big investigation laid out for them. 

Still feeling buoyed by her chat with Tessa Whitstable, memories of her disastrous lunchbreak were reduced to an almost ignorable churning in her belly. And of course that feeling was commonplace since Mary had gone wherever she’d gone. Molly sighed. In so few years, the world had turned into one big threat.

“Nope,” Sherlock suddenly said, his voice echoing around the room. He snapped his scope closed and pocketed it. 

“Not what you were looking for?” Molly asked.

“Would help if I knew what I was looking for,” she thought he said.

“Pardon?”

“Worth noting that your fisherman friend here most certainly did not die peacefully in his sleep,” Sherlock pointed to a bearded older gentleman who had only arrived into Molly’s care that afternoon and was yet to undergo post-mortem. Molly picked up his notes and began to scan them. “When Lestrade suggests I come in, tell him he can expect my report by email if he’s lucky, but more likely text. Now, given your increased workload thanks to my wasted last two hours, I shall adjust the time I expect you will be ready to leave from your customary sixteen minutes to thirty-four minutes, which will give me adequate time before meeting you at the taxi rank.”

“Meeting me?” Molly said, looking up from the file. 

“We might as well share the fare to the Watson’s flat,” Sherlock said, clearly thinking this made no less sense than anything else he’d just said.

“I’m not having Rosie tonight,” Molly said, feeling a rush of panic. “John’s not expecting me.” Was she sure?

“You haven’t checked your phone for the last forty-five minutes. Far outside your usual parameters.”

 _Well, you’re in the room,_ flashed across Molly’s mind before she could stop it. She knew he was thinking the same or similar from the look on his face. She rolled her eyes. She wouldn’t be checking her phone again any time soon, it was upstairs. But if he was right, and no doubt he was, she’d better get a move on. 

Molly sat across from Sherlock in the back of the taxi wondering whether it had all been in her mind, that lovely time when Rosie came along. Well, obviously she knew those days had happened and things had gone the way they’d gone. But as she often did after having any kind of contact with her mother, she couldn’t help but look back over times which had seemed all fine and dandy to her – seemed lovely – and wonder whether she had in fact seen what she wanted to see, felt what she wanted to feel. 

Sherlock had filled the half hour Molly had taken to get ready to leave work with a trip to a sushi place for takeaway. Her favourite sushi place. He’d opened the door of the cab for her and had chatted a bit as they crossed the city. Through this very strange couple of weeks, he had stuck to his usual frequency of visits to the lab or morgue and he had kept her company babysitting Rosie. When he was with his Goddaughter, Molly saw the tension disappear from his shoulders.

The rest of the time, though, he was a coiled spring to an extent Molly had never seen before. And while he was obviously content and keen to talk about Mary and Moriarty and everything which was obviously taking up his mind every second he was awake, Molly felt unsettled. She had always felt like there was this strange space in between the two of them – a void which pulled them towards each other even though it never closed up. Since the night Mary had vanished, though, it was like a cold breeze was blowing through that space, making it even harder to ignore and a whole lot less comforting. 

They arrived at the flat as the sky was starting to darken. John let them in, muslin cloth over his shoulder and bottle still in his hand from putting Rosie to bed. Molly hadn’t been wrong, tonight was a last minute change of plan. She didn’t mind, really. She was worried about John; capable as he was as a dad, it was obvious this was taking its tole. She’d watched him cope, or try to cope, with losing someone before. He had all the more reason to hold it together this time, and this time he knew himself that Mary would come home when she could. But Molly was still concerned. 

Molly once overheard Anderson describe Sherlock as the man of thought and John the man of action. Once, she might have agreed it was that way around. Nowadays, though, she felt different, and she was afraid of what all this might be doing to John. He was too quiet, too stoic. Sherlock was practically vibrating, John was becoming more and more still. 

“Hiya,” Molly greeted him, receiving the briefest half-smile in response. He reached past her to close the door before heading to the kitchen without a word. 

Molly hung up her coat and took off her shoes, not surprised to see Sherlock not doing the same before he followed John. Molly’s tummy rumbled as she went through to the dining table, thinking that at least it might pass a nice hour or so to sit and eat together and chat. Find a bit of normality. 

Molly was struggling a little with how she felt when she thought about Mary, if she was honest with herself. Of course she was desperately worried, but it wasn’t quite as simple as that. But she definitely, wholeheartedly, wished she was about to come back into the room from the loo, or something, warm smile in place, having never drugged Sherlock and left. How nice it had all seemed, not so long ago.

John pulled a bottle of wine out of the fridge and set in on the worktop next to a wine glass. He was probably having a beer. Molly opened the bottle and poured herself a glass as Sherlock placed the takeaway bag on the table. Molly took her usual seat, peering into the bag. Her brow wrinkled.

“What are you two having?” she said, fishing the one-person sized box of sushi from the bag and showing it to the boys. She smiled, waiting for John to roll his eyes and Sherlock to say he wasn’t hungry.

“We’ll get something while we’re out,” Sherlock said.

“Oh. You’re going now, are you?”

“Yes. Not a moment to lose.”

“Right,” Molly said. “Of course, yes, do what you need to do.” She smiled at John, disappointed but thinking it was good for him to get out and do something rather than being stuck at home wondering. She’d watch Gardener’s World, without the running commentary.

“If we need to be away for a second night we’ll let you know,” Sherlock said, looking at his phone instead of at Molly.

“You’re going away?” she asked. “Who’s having Rosie in the day tomorrow? And hold on, I haven’t got anything with me!”

“Overnight bag in the spare room. Wiggins fed the cat. Mrs Hudson said she might be able to relieve you for an hour or two tomorrow afternoon. She’ll text you. Don’t hold your breath, though, she’s having a sleepover of her own tonight and she can be very unreliable before the sixth or seventh date…”

“John, I’m sorry,” Molly spoke over Sherlock, “I’m working tomorrow. If I’d _known_ …” she looked pointedly at Sherlock, but he still wasn’t looking at her, “I might have been able to…”

“My brother will see to it that there are no repercussions, as he has done in the past,” Sherlock said.

“What..?” A number of things flashed across Molly’s mind but she managed to stay focussed. “Wait, no – my application for head of department is being considered, I can’t not be there at the moment.”

“Why you would wish to decrease time spent actually doing your job in favour of paperwork and idiot-management is beyond me, Molly. But nevertheless, the job is yours, thanks to your connections.”

“Sherlock…” John’s voice held a quiet warning.

“I beg your pardon?” Molly’s was less subtle.

Sherlock actually held up his hand to shush her. Molly was shocked into complying, waves of it washing over her in a tingling cold even as her face flamed in heat. John looked at her while Sherlock carried on, addressing him now.

“John, your coat, if we aren’t extremely careful we could miss our only window to catch up – we need every step to go as planned, starting today.”

Sherlock turned and strode across the living room. He called ‘come on!’ from the doorway, but John was still stood a few feet away from Molly, looking wearier than she had ever seen him.

 _Sorry,_ John’s eyes said, whether on his own behalf or Sherlock’s Molly wasn’t entirely sure. Then he sighed, and followed Sherlock out of the door. 

_“Molly, Mrs H, we would love you to be Godparents.”_

_“Really?”_

_Me? You think I’d be any good at that? You actually want me to do that? Really? You’d… you’d make me part of your family like that?_

Her body language and her dazed, amazed grinning probably said everything she didn’t actually voice to John and Mary that day. The most incredible feeling. To have a place, to be in a family, one that had chosen her, full of people she adored… it was so much more than she deserved. She hadn’t felt anything like it since uni, and this was every bit as powerful as the bubble of warmth she had been enveloped by in that little shared terrace house. And this was even better – it had forever. She would be Rosie’s Godmother _forever_. Nothing would ever take that away. 

But now, the cold was seeping in, like it always did. They didn’t want what she could do because it was her. They needed her because of what she could do. For them. _Needed, but not wanted._

She adored Rosie, that would never, _never_ change. But this wasn’t like being in a family. 

Molly laughed to herself but it hurt, sounded awful. _This is exactly like family. And that’s why I’ve kept it at arm’s length._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this while I put our wonderful girl through the mill! I'm breaking my own heart.
> 
> Shameless self promotion; my fic The Pathologist's Skeletons looks more closely at how I imagine Molly's relationship with her grandmother, who I named Violet and placed as the personal assistant of Lady Smallwood's mother. It's a (not too creepy) ghost story with some Sherlock's mind palace fun and plenty of established Sherlolly loveliness (I hope!). Have a nosey, if you fancy. 
> 
> <3


	7. Let Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: none.
> 
> Additional character tags; Mrs Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all :)
> 
> Hope you're well. Huge thanks as always for reading and for all your lovely comments. Two chapters coming your way tonight - the section just felt too long to be one chapter. But I didn't want to leave you on (yet another) sad note. I'll say no more... ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Stay safe, all xx

A month after Mary vanished.

“Discoloration of the synovial fluid – here,” Molly pointed under to the underside of the knee of the cadaver in front of her, looking back up to make sure the students stood around the slab were following her. “It’s commonly missed, but it’s a clear sign of fatal hypothermia.”

Notes were studiously made, and while Molly prepared to move onto the next stage of her demonstration, she stole a sideways glance at Mike Stamford. He was making notes, too, but of course he didn’t need to record the details of the post mortem. He was reporting back, on Molly. He looked up and caught her eye, making Molly blush and return her attention quickly back to her work. When she looked again, he had stopped writing and was smiling at her kindly. _Let today go well,_ Molly silently prayed to the gods of careers and getting them back on track.

“Thanks, Molly,” Mike said to her as he trooped the students out a while later. “Sure you don’t want to transfer to teaching full time?” He smiled and she returned it, thinking _yeah right, ‘cos people always listen to me!_

There was a note on the office desk when she got back upstairs, asking if she would swap shifts with a colleague. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose and scanned the upcoming days in her head, but it was no good – she was going to have to look at her schedule. A minute later, she swapped from the calendar to messages on her phone and sent one to John;

_Hiya. I’ve got to be in earlier tomorrow to cover a night. Will you be back by 9pm? Molly x_

By the time she’d come back from answering a question from another registrar on shift with her, John had replied. Three times.

_Day of the Jackal. Classic. You?_

_Sorry – wrong number! Hahaha_

_Think it will be later tomorrow. Could you try Mrs H? Jx_

Molly dropped the hand holding her phone down to the desk top and let out a sigh. She checked the time, quickly brought up Martha Hudson’s number and pressed call. It rang for quite a while. She wondered, as she often did, if Sherlock would pick it up…

“Hello?” It was the landlady.

“Hi – it’s Molly. Hooper.”

“Hello Molly, dear.”

“Hi. Can’t chat for long, sorry, I’m at work. I’m having Rosie tomorrow evening, but I’ve been asked to come in to the hospital.” Molly paused, hoping Martha would save her having to ask. No such luck, though.

“Oh dear, that’s a bit of a pickle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, a bit,” Molly said. Fortunately her slight annoyance gave her the courage to get over her reluctance to pass the buck. “Can you babysit instead? Please.”

“Oh! Sorry, Molly, of course that’s what you meant,” Martha laughed her tinkling laugh and Molly felt better. Actually, she felt a bit tearful.

“No, dear,” Martha went on to say, though. “I’ve got my Boxercise.”

“Oh, but…”

“Tell that Doctor Watson he needs to look after his own child sometimes – honestly! Especially while her mother’s away…” Molly heard a rattling in the background. “Sorry, dear, I’ve got to get on, I’m nearly burning the toast and Sherlock never eats it if it’s cremated. Cheerio!”

The call was cut off before Molly had had time to say _oh, Sherlock’s at home, is he?_ If he had time to sit around eating toast – which was more than she’d managed today – surely he had time to reply to her messages, bother to come in and look at the victims Lestrade put in front of Molly. 

_Speak of the devil…_

“Hello.”

Greg turned to her from where he was stood in the lab, having just walked through the door. He had a file in his hands and his face had that usual slightly flustered look about it. 

“All right, Molly? Sherlock said you’d already had a look at our Mr Venucci.”

“Did he?” Molly snapped, prickling irritation returning and mixing with the teetering emotion. Greg looked taken aback for a second. Then he raised his eyebrows, his expression resolving to understanding. 

“Fancy a coffee, before we do any more of his bidding?”

The coffee had been nice. Well, the coffee itself had been okay – Costa was closed, so it was canteen dishwater or nothing. But the company was nice, and the break illicit but welcome. After they’d finished the little packet of biscuits, and Greg had talked about his weekend plans and a bit about the case he had come in about, he said;

“’Course this business with Mary’s taking up so much of his time it’s not easy to actually get him to help.” He stretched, leaning back on his chair. He looked really tired. He looked like she felt.

“Yeah,” Molly tried to laugh in that ‘typical Sherlock’ way, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, after a moment, Molly found herself saying, “what’s going to happen, Greg?”

Even though Molly didn’t know exactly what Greg knew, he clearly did know what she was getting at. He put the legs of the chair back down and rested his hands on his thighs. Looking at Molly, he opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to change his mind, then shook his head a little. 

“Sherlock’ll figure it out. He always does.”

Going for coffee had been a nice, reassuring moment of normality, until then. 

Two days later, having roundly annoyed her colleague by letting him down on the shift-swap, and then spent a sleepless night at John and Mary’s flat with Rosie and her cold (relived by John at 3.00 a.m, four hours after he said he would be home), then worked nine hours of her ten-hour shift, Molly was done-in and on edge. To make matters worse, she’d fudged some paperwork – just a silly mistake, nothing terrible, but noticeable – and Tessa Whitstable had happened to be the next person in the chain in the case of that particular body. She’d come to Molly herself to point out the error. Molly thought you probably had to present in a certain way to get on in a job like hers, not least in a profession which was still pretty misogynistic. But even so, Molly couldn’t decide how annoyed her boss’ boss had been, how heavy the black mark was on her record. 

Overthinking and second-guessing was the bane of Molly’s life. She knew when she was doing it, she knew what made it worse. But that didn’t mean she could stop it happening. By the time Sherlock walked into the lab, Molly had wound herself into a knot of actual worry and guilt about worrying and fury with herself for all of it. 

He walked over to where she was and placed a paper bag on the surface next to her. Molly looked up at him quickly, then down into the bag. 

“What’s this in aid of?” she asked.

“Saying sorry,” he said. 

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. She selected a packet of chocolate-covered cranberries from the bag which looked like it contained everything she would usually order from Pret over the course of a week, and opened them. She pointedly declined to offer him one. 

“Yes, well,” she said. “It’s your turn next. And every time she gets a cold from now on.”

Sherlock settled himself in his usual position and worked away at something he clearly didn’t need to talk about. Molly spent the ten minutes adding another layer to her self-loathing through feeling comforted by him being there. After that, though, she decided to just go with it. Comfort was something she was sorely lacking, just then.

He asked for a set of test results Molly hadn’t even realised were connected to anything he was investigating. She found them and passed them over, reading them herself as well. She spotted the error the instant he did and they spoke at the same time;

“I didn’t do these tests…”

“You can’t have done these tests…”

She was stood right next to him. He turned to look at her. There was quiet. Molly felt herself wobble, just a bit, tiredness washing over her as she pictured him circling her waist with his arm, letting her rest her head on his shoulder, laying his warm cheek against her hair… seeing her…

“So,” she said, swallowing and blinking a few times. “You don’t think I’m stupid.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled between his brows, affronted. But the set of his mouth was all disappointment. 

“No. Of course not. Why would – oh…”

“I don’t need your brother’s help to get a job, Sherlock.”

“I was not suggesting that you did,” he said.

Molly took a step back, began tidying where she had been working, suddenly not as keen to stay late. She needed sleep, and definitely not another sort-of-argument. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wearily. Why had she even brought this up? 

“You work hard…” Sherlock was saying, still looking at her. _You brought it up because you’re sick of being treated like a mug, Molly. And you need to know he doesn’t think you’re an idiot. Which makes you one._ “… on behalf of… people who can make your life easier as a result,” Sherlock continued as Molly tuned back in. “I was merely suggesting you could take advantage of the position you’re in seeing as…”

Molly laughed, humourlessly. “You’d know all about that.”

Sherlock’s expression morphed to frustration as he paused. “You are simply owed a debt, for your assistance in foiling James Moriarty,” he said, his voice hard. “Mycroft is not a forgetful man. He would look for opportunity to return the favour.”

“I don’t want paying, Sherlock.”

They stared at each other, him seated at the microscope, her stood a couple of feet away. About to leave. What did he read on her face, she wondered. What did he deduce she did want?

“This is not about favours, to me. It’s about…” Molly stopped herself. She was just too well practised in not finishing that sentence. She settled instead on something equally true but more important. “It’s about Rosie.”

She gathered up the things she needed to return to the cold storage unit and wove around his chair. She sent the quickest of goodbyes his way as she left a little while after, didn’t look over at him. Outside in the brightly lit corridor, she pulled her coat on properly and began doing up the zip, dreaming of the bottle of wine the rack at home, sleep, and some bloody peace! 

“Dr Hooper.”

It was Tessa Whitstable. Molly’s shoulders slumped, she knew her face didn’t show the professionalism – or respect – it should, but she was past caring. 

“I wanted to let you know before you went home – the position is yours. Congratulations.”

The doctor smiled at her. Molly merely raised her eyebrows.

“Thank you, Dr Whitstable. But I am withdrawing my application. Good night.”

Without hearing or saying another word, Molly turned and walked away. 


	8. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: none.
> 
> Additional character tags: none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, darling girl <3
> 
> Read on for some eventual, well-deserved comfort.

That night

_I’m a sensible girl, I always have been. I’ve worked hard to get the job I have and I’ve got plans…_

_Where’s that girl gone? Where’s the woman she grew into gone? Is this what happens, Mary - we work and we grow and we be what they need us to be, then we disappear?_

_I’m sorry. Work feels like a combination of a dead-end and a downward spiral. And I’m a combination of cross with and worried about Sherlock (what else is new?). Okay, none of that’s great, but it can’t be anything like as awful as what you’re going through._

_What’s going to happen, Mary? Are you coming home? Do you think you could do me a favour? Could you bring yourself back, deal with this threat yourself? I’m sure you know what you’re doing. What did you do before there was Sherlock? Who protected you from everything before?_

_I’m so sorry. You deserve protection – you deserve to be looked after. Not just because you’re Rosie’s mum. But, goodness me, does she need you to be all right._

_Will Rosie find out about your past, Mary? When? How old will she be? What do the rest of us say in the meantime, when she starts asking questions. How do you bring up a baby in amongst…. all this? She is innocent, she has no idea why we all do what we do and she doesn’t deserve to grow up wondering._

_I need you to help. I need you to come home. Honestly, I need you to keep Sherlock safe, too. Not that you’ve done a great job of that so far. I’ll forgive you this time like I did last time, but can you do me another favour? Can you protect him from ending up out cold, laid on a hospital bed? Laid on the slab._

_I can’t bear it. I can. But I can’t._

_I’ve tried – you know I’ve tried. I tried to stay with someone I thought at least wouldn’t leave me, wouldn’t make me second guess everything they did, wouldn’t make me wonder whether I was seeing what I wanted to see. But it didn’t work. It’s not Sherlock’s fault, not entirely. I just can’t learn, I can’t let go. I won’t put myself first – I don’t want to. I want to live for my loved ones and because of them. With them. Together. I’m an idiot._

_There’s only so much help I can give, there is a limit to my ability. God, I want to do it, I want to get better at anything that might help, anything that might keep you all safe._

_Anything that keeps me in his heart._

_There’s a brick wall around us, like a cell. Like a tomb. What do I do now, where do I go next, how long do I keep going before enough is enough? For Christ’s sake - what’s going to happen, Mary?_

Molly threw herself over onto her other side in bed, burying her face in the pillow and sobbing her heart out.

_I’ve worked hard to get the job I have…_

_and I’ve got plans…_

_but he just rides all over everything._

Whether she forgot to set the alarm because she was so upset or whether she slept through it after her dreadful night, that didn’t change the outcome of her being very late for work the next morning. Graham May, whom she’d let down over swapping shifts the other day, followed her around the lab for a full five minutes berating her. It was like he knew she hadn’t been promoted – perhaps he did know – because Molly could see his eyes darting around to see who was watching him take her down a peg or two. He was her junior, not that she would ever treat him differently because of that, but he clearly didn’t share her moral code when it came to pulling up co-workers. It was a bloody good thing for him that she didn’t subscribe to his brand of ethics, mind you. He’d have been sacked months ago if she as a tell-tale. He was capable, but he was lazy. Now he was buzzing around her like a wasp after the leftovers of a jam sandwich, it was clear as day he either had no idea how often she’d compensated for him, or he didn’t see how that affected him if she had. 

She logged out of her emails without replying to the request for a meeting from Dr Whitstable and snatched the stack of paperwork out of Graham’s hands. Volunteering to go and sort it all out with procurement herself, she spent as long as she possibly could in that department at the other side of St Bartholomew’s. 

At 6.00 p.m. Molly was deeply relieved to be leaving again. It had been easier arranging and then keeping the secret of a faked death for two years than it was to avoid one member of a department made up of more people than she could name. After almost running into Dr Whitstable several times, by the time it was Mike Stamford who was walking purposefully towards her, she’d resorted to faking a stomach ache and running for the loo. As she walked towards the main road, she wondered if she could drag out her white lie to get her the day off tomorrow. She wouldn’t, of course. 

A black cab pulled up just along the curb from where she was standing waiting to cross. She looked at it. Doing that brought into her line of sight the pavement between the ambulance station and the old building. Her eyes swept from that spot to the roofline above. _Oh, Sherlock. Did it solve the problem?_

“Molly!”

When she looked, she saw that John was stood by the open door of the black cab. He waved to her and she raised her hand on instinct to wave back.

“Can I give you a lift?” he said. 

“Oh. No thanks, John – I’m going to call for some food from the shop. You okay?”

John’s expression fell. He looked sideways into the back of the taxi. Sighing the deepest sigh, Molly realised what was going on.

“Sorry, John, but no. I’ve… I’m not feeling one hundred percent. Sorry…”

“It’s all right, Molly – don’t worry. I knew this was…”

The cab wobbled on its tyres and Sherlock unfolded himself from the backseat. Molly squared her shoulders, facing him as he walked towards her on the pavement. 

“Ambushing me, now, are you? That’s new. I’m not a suspect, Sherlock,” she said, feeling her heart rate rise with her irritation.

“Molly, please listen, this is crucial,” he said, holding his hands up between them.

“It always is.”

“No,” he said, his eyes wide and serious looking into hers. “This is it.”

Molly stomach dropped. “You’ve found her?”

Something passed over Sherlock’s face but it was too fast for her to read properly, but he nodded once.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine, let’s go,” Molly said. Her heart was pounding now, but not with anger.

“Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock took another step towards her and the rest of London, the rest of the world, all that time, fell away. “My trust has never been misplaced in you.”

_Trip not entirely to plan. But we’re safe. With you in two hours. SH_

Molly pressed the phone to her heart and held it there. She turned away from the ground floor window where she had been watching the street-lit road as if the three of them were about to turn the corner any minute. Rosie was sound asleep. Molly let out a long breath, full of relief. When she got up in the morning, the little girl would have a mum again. Her family were home.

A key turned in the door exactly when Sherlock said it would and John pushed it open. He put down the bags he was carrying, came straight over to Molly and hugged her, thanked her, looked at her properly. She smiled, almost giddy inside. Behind him, Mary had come through the door and was stood in the middle of her living room. She looked exhausted. She looked lost. Changed, but then not at all. Molly walked over and stood in front of her. Mary took Molly’s hands when she held them out but it took Mary a few moments to look at her.

“You’re home,” Molly said. 

Mary smiled, closing her eyes. She squeezed Molly’s hands, looked back at her.

“Molly Hooper,” Mary said. “I knew Rosie would need you.”

“She’ll always have me,” Molly reassured her friend, realising forgiveness was hard to imagine from far away, but easy to give when you were this close. “You, too. Just take care, now, all right?”

Mary held Molly’s face and kissed her cheek. “Thank you. And I’m sorry,” she whispered, and the stinging in the corners of Molly’s eyes got a lot worse as Mary pressed her lips together.

Mary let Molly go and pushed her fingers into her eye sockets for a second before shrugging off her jacket and plonking it on the settee. “Is Rosie asleep?” she asked Molly.

“Yes,” Molly said.

“Miracle worker,” Mary said, making Molly smile. Mary put her hand on the top of Molly’s arm, turning to Sherlock, who was stood by the front door. “I’ve said it all along,” she said to him.

Molly’s eyes widened. She watched as Mary walked over and reached up to kiss Sherlock on the cheek before heading up the stairs. Sherlock smiled at her, watched her go up, then his eyes met Molly’s. 

“Can I give you a lift?” he said.

The recent sunny weather had passed Molly by. But when they left the Watsons’ she really noticed the clear, inky-blue sky and bright, pale moon, felt the warmer air wrap around her. It was as through she could breathe again, really fill her lungs up with the night air. Smoggy as it was, it was home and Molly loved it, that night. 

Sherlock had to go on to see his brother. Fresh as ever he was, even after a long flight. Not to mention after whatever constituted plans going a bit awry. He hadn’t said yet. But he’d sat with her in the back of the taxi. Closer than he had to be. Their upper arms touched every time the cab turned or went over a bump in the road. He had his fingers linked together in his lap. She held hers together in front of her. He’d caught her eye and smiled, and Molly thought it was more than the nice weather she’d been missing. 

She could have gone home, Sherlock offered to get the taxi to go to hers first. But she was too full of energy to rattle around on her own or try to sleep, even though it was getting late. She offered to wait for him, asked if he wanted to get something to eat. He’d seemed hesitant, perhaps not keen to take her up. But he didn’t brush her off either, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed, not sure quite what he wanted. Molly smiled at him. This Sherlock was the one she longed for, when she was forced to spend too much time around the one in the hat.

“See you in the lab?” she suggested.

 _That smile_. He was a flippin’ nightmare. 

“Not quite the decisive lead I had hoped for,” he said in answer to Molly asking how his trip to Mycroft’s office had gone, a while later. 

It was just the two of them in the lab, as Molly had known it would be, making the prospect of going back to work when she’d never been so keen to be away from it, much more appealing. 

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. 

“Yes. And in a way, no. For my brother’s sake.”

Molly was well practised in letting the details come along when they were ready – when he was ready. So she made them a coffee while he took off his coat and got settled. He had his head rested in his hands when she got back. She placed his mug down beside his elbow. 

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He lifted his head, took a deep breath. “I need to think,” he said. “Give me problems, Molly. Give me work.”

That wasn’t an issue. Under her instruction – which was a thrilling experience in itself – Sherlock helped her power through almost everything she had let fall by the wayside over the last little while. Delayed tests were done, results analysed and followed-up on where something intriguing came to light. Paperwork was completed and organised. He even took a centrifuge partly to pieces and sorted out a mechanical fault in its complicated innards. For a few hours, time had slowed, gone gloopy again, gone back to a point in their history when the whole world was what they could work out between them. For those few hours, Molly forgot about everything else. 

They ended up leaning against the bench, side by side, having finished the last job on Molly’s mental list. Sleepy-eyed and with their shoulders aching but relaxed, finishing the dregs of the tea they had swapped to once it passed 1.00 a.m. _“Death before decaf, Hooper! Don’t let me hear you make such a ghastly suggestion ever again. It’ll have to be tea. I’ll make it.”_

Neither of them were in a rush to go anywhere. Molly’s tummy sank just a little, when she thought of the next day, what might happen next. Sherlock still hadn’t told her much more, but she gathered things weren’t resolved. There were loose threads. He hated that. She wasn’t keen either. And there were plenty of things Molly still needed to sort out herself, things that couldn’t be written on a to-do list and be ticked off. But that was for later on, for now Molly was content just to stand with him, here, in their little world.

“Rosie rolled almost completely over yesterday,” she told Sherlock, smiling at the memory.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “One can only imagine what that girl will grow up to be capable of.”

Molly chuckled, then yawned and rolled her shoulders, putting her cup down so she could massage her left one. Sherlock was looking at her. Molly gave him a questioning look in return.

He put his coffee cup on the bench. “Let me,” he said, moving his arm between them to hover behind her, somewhere over her shoulder blades. 

“Oh, erm, okay,” Molly turned herself, hesitantly, so her back was to him.

Sherlock placed the heel of his right hand right on the part of her shoulder which gave her jip. His fingers rested on her collar bone for a moment. With his left hand, he took hold of her bent left elbow (her hand had frozen on her sternum when she turned around) and manoeuvred her arm gently. She could feel the muscles and bones in the join shift and press against the light pressure of his hand. She could also feel her own heartbeat. 

“Skateboarding is a very dangerous pastime,” Sherlock said, deciding on where he wanted her arm to be and holding it there before moving his finger tips to exactly where Molly’s rotator cuff suffered when she’d been tense for too long. He pressed gently but firmly, running his fingers along the length of the muscle as if pushing the pain away. The sensation was so overwhelming and in so many ways that Molly couldn’t respond to his observation for a moment as she was concentrating too hard on not making an involuntary, entirely inappropriate noise. 

“I.. erm…” she cleared her throat. “I didn’t go back to it after I broke my collar bone. Too much of a wimp.”

“Sensible, in fact,” Sherlock said.

Molly laughed shortly, tipping her head towards her right shoulder and feeling another easing in her muscles as Sherlock adjusted where he rubbed in response. “That’ll be carved on my headstone,” she said. “Here lies Molly Hooper. She was… sensible…”

His fingertips brushed her skin on the back of her neck. He seemed to freeze and Molly’s breath caught. Then he ran his fingers back along to her shoulder joint. As they travelled back the other way again Molly wondered if he would make sure he stopped at the neckline of her jumper, this time. She kept herself absolutely still. He didn’t stop, and Molly held her breath as the warmth of his touch spread further up her neck than before and towards her hair. At the top of the stroke, he flattened his palm, slowly sweeping his whole hand back down her neck. 

So slowly - he didn’t need to go that slowly. An entirely different touch, not that of a physio, not even of a helpful friend. It was a touch the likes of which Molly had simply never encountered in her entire life. 

She realised she was breathing through her mouth. She realised he had gone very still, right hand on her shoulder blade, left still around her elbow. Tighter than it had been. 

She turned around to face him and he let his hands drop from her but he didn’t step back. He looked down at her, eyes all intense, lips parted. Were his cheeks flushed?

“Better?” he asked, his voice low.

“Better,” she answered without hesitation. 

He smiled quickly, his eyes still locked onto hers. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor and moved back gently, just enough to break the moment, as Molly knew he would. 

But, of course, he could never break that powerful connection, hooked at either end to each of them, the insatiable pull in between. He couldn’t break that for Molly. And for the first time in what felt like a long time, everything about him made her feel as though he wasn’t trying to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading xx


	9. Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: none 
> 
> Additional character tags: none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, everyone! Hope you've been enjoying Sherlolly Appreciation Week. I am blown away, as ever, by the creativity in this community <3 
> 
> Here's a chapter which ought to be called the calm before the storm...
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me :)

A few days later.

“Hi, Mary, are you all right?”

Molly answered her phone while she was waiting to use the checkout at Waitrose. She’d only gone in for a sandwich, so she hadn’t picked up a basket, but she could never resist the lovely stuff they had in there, so now she had a precarious arm-full.

“Yes… fine, thank you, Molly.”

Molly plonked everything awkwardly and unceremoniously onto the conveyor belt, a jar of tuna in olive oil rolling along and joining the items the person in front had all neatly arranged. This fishy transgression earned Molly a filthy look from the person ahead of her. She quickly retrieved the jar. 

“Good. Listen, I can barely hear you, I’m in Waitrose. Can I phone you back in a minute, is it important?”

“Erm…”

Molly wasn’t sure whether Mary paused or whether she had lost signal. She looked at her phone screen, but it was still connected. “You still there?” she asked.

“Yes, sorry. It’s been a bit of a day,” Mary said, her voice sounding wobbly down the line.

“Really? What’s happening?” Molly asked her as the cashier handed Mr Rude his receipt and began scanning her items. 

“Just getting a few things straight, you know,” Mary said, and Molly’s heart went out to her. What a shock it must be to be back to normal after everything that had happened. Normal – did that even exist for them?

“Listen, there’s just something I want to talk to you about…” Mary started saying, but Molly’s phone slipped off her shoulder as she was trying to pack her shopping. She scrabbled for it amongst everything and jammed it back under her ear.. 

“…Molly? Molly?”

“Sorry, Mary – I dropped my silly phone! Look, let me ring you back in a minute, okay?”

There was another pause. “Yes, yes of course,” Mary said. “Take care, Molly.”

“I’ll ring you when I get outside.”

Outside, though, it had started to rain. The bright and breezy morning the day had begun with had turned into a windy and chilly afternoon. Molly decided she’d phone Mary when she got back into the dry at work, and huddled herself into her coat as she marched back towards the hospital. 

When she got there and extricated herself from her coat, which was saturated and stuck to her, she had to put phoning her friend on the back-burner again. 

“Molly, can I have a word?”

It was Dr Whitstable. Molly’s middle sank. 

“Sorry, Dr Whitstable,” she said. “I’m… a bit wet. It’s raining. Outside”

_That’s it, Molly – make her even more glad you turned the job down._

“Yes, I can see.” Her boss smiled. “Well, will you come and find me before you go home this evening, perhaps?”

“Oh, well, I…” Molly cast around herself, her eyes alighting on the first thing that caught her eye. “I really need to take that centrifuge down to the technicians before I leave – it’s not been working for weeks!”

Dr Whitstable narrowed her eyes, Molly swallowed. At that very second _(of bloody course!)_ Graham May came over, opened the wretched machine and took out a series of phials. Molly felt her face flame. She almost covered her eyes. Almost told Dr Whitstable that she would prefer never to talk to her about the promotion – or anything else – ever again.

Graham slammed the centrifuge shut, bringing Molly’s attention back. She turned and watched him stomp across the lab with what he had come to collect. There were two men stood by the far bench. They wore suits and ties, their visitor passes clipped to breast-pockets which gaped slightly. _Cigarettes, probably. Police?_

Molly focussed on the strangers as they looked with barely disguised disinterest at what Graham was showing them. After being asked a question Molly couldn’t quite hear, the doctor fumbled through a sheaf of papers, not seeing the smirk and eye-roll exchanged by the men beside him. 

“Excuse me,” she said vaguely to Dr Whitstable as she began to make her way over to where she could better hear and see what was going on. Completely forgetting she was without her lab-coat or badge, was soaked-through and leaving little puddles of rain water behind her, forgetting she had just used that as an excuse and therefore ought to be acting on it now. Forgetting Mary. 

The two men were scoffing at something, which when Molly got nearer she realised was the results Graham had been showing them. She listened to him giving more details, referring to the phials, trying to show his audience. They clearly weren’t listening. But based on what Graham was saying, Molly thought they should be.

“He’s right, actually,” Molly said, causing all three men to look up at her. “I have seen evidence of that myself several times. We can show you the…”

“And you are?” The elder of the two policemen barked at her, incredulous, his tone and expression telling Molly all she needed to know as if it was written on his ID badge along with his occupation. She straightened her back.

“Dr Molly Hooper, registrar,” she said, meeting his eyes, which had turned mocking. 

“Well, _doctor_ ,” he said. “If we want your opinion, we’ll ask for it.”

Molly felt her blood boil. The second man, clearly supressing a smirk, snatched the report out of Graham’s hand. “Not that it’s worth asking for much around here.” 

Graham’s mouth dropped open, his eyes wide. 

“And to think,” the policeman carried on, “everyone says this is place to go. Thanks for nothing, junior,” he said to Graham. “Next time, stick to the line of enquiry, leave the experimental science to the experts, all right?”

“How dare you,” Molly said, her voice sharp, stopping the policemen in their tracks as they headed for the door. There was a brief, ringing silence. “Dr May _is_ the expert here, and your line of enquiry ought to follow the data he has provided for you. Apologise now, and we will consider helping when you realise he is right and turn up again. Otherwise, expect yourselves to be removed from the investigation all together – this victim deserves better than you. And so do we. Now, apologise.”

A look was exchanged. Then both policemen looked past Molly, and that was when she remembered the head of Clinical Services was stood there. She kept her eyes on the hateful excuse for public servants in front of her, though, ready to make her request again.

After a moment, “apologies, doctor,” was begrudgingly offered. 

Molly looked at Graham. He looked bloody miserable, but he tipped his chin up before nodding once. Molly copied him when the two men’s eyes moved to her. The older man gave one last nod in the direction of Dr Whitstable and they both left the lab. 

The quiet which followed was a bit tingly. Molly looked at Graham again. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow creased, then he tried again, but nothing came out for a second time. 

“You shouldn’t have to,” Molly said, “but don’t give them a reason to discredit you. You did the work, if you’d got the results together in time, you would have been in a better position. It’s important, for the deceased. But still, those men were horrid, I’m sorry they picked on you. I wish it didn’t happen. But none of us are immune.”

Molly felt chilly as her adrenaline receded. She wrapped her arms around herself, gave Graham a quick, tight smile and turned to go and sort herself out. 

“Thanks, Dr Hooper.” Graham found his voice. “I’m, erm, I…”

“It’s all right,” Molly said. “Let’s move on.”

Molly apologised for needing to get past Dr Whitstable with a look as she reached the office door. Her boss stepped to one side, her eyes on Molly. 

“We’ll speak later,” she said. 

Molly sighed to herself. _Mary first,_ she thought. _She wanted to talk to me and that’s much more important. And besides, I need my friend._

_For some unknown reason,_ Dr May followed Molly around for the rest of her shift. He didn’t go as far as offering to put the kettle on at 4.00 p.m. but Molly reasoned that now he was at least on side she had a better chance of getting him trained up. And at least the days of berating her were, hopefully, over. She ended up eating her sandwich stood up in the office going over files, then her last few hours of the working day passed in a blur of busy-ness and – apparently – bringing on her eager student.

When she crossed the quadrant garden heading for the exit, it was with the most acute guilt at having not gone to see Dr Whitstable she had experienced since the day Molly had turned down the post in her righteous anger. Up until this point, she had been able to tell herself she just hadn’t had chance, hadn’t run into her boss, hadn’t been summoned. But tonight, Molly had to admit, she had been summoned, and still she was almost jogging away from the hospital when she should be knocking on an office door. 

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and unlocked it, trying to think of the quietest route home she could take that might allow her to at least start chatting to Mary. Even if they took the conversation back up with a glass of wine later. The tube was hopeless for signal, and of course the brightly lit and crowded streets were the safest, but perhaps if she talked loudly about meeting up with someone imminently (Mary would know the code with no pre-amble, as would any of her girlfriends) she could go through the park…

Her phone began to vibrate in her hand and she smiled. But she was surprised to find it wasn’t Mary calling her. 

“Hi John,” she said. 

“Yeah, Molly, hi – can you come over and babysit Rosie? Sherlock’s got a lead, he wants us both to meet him at the aquarium. Now,” John explained, pretty hurriedly. 

“The aquarium?” Molly said, smiling. 

“Apparently. Look, Mary’s already gone, can I send a taxi for you?”

“Don’t worry, John, I’ll get one now. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

“Cheers, Molly.”

John ended the call and Molly didn’t think anything of his briskness. She held her phone close ready to take a quick snap of the cab’s plate as it slowed in response to her waving. _Perfect,_ she thought to herself, _with any luck, I can sit and have a proper catch up with Mary either later on or perhaps even over brunch tomorrow._

Molly jumped into the back, pleased with herself for having left a set of pyjamas, clothes and a toothbrush in the Watsons’ spare room last time. She was getting better at this – and perhaps things were getting better all round. She gave the address and sat back to enjoy the ride across London. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you can tell I have had recent events, and the harsh reality of how unsafe women often feel and are, on my mind. My heart goes out to anyone who has felt intimidated or worse. Stay safe <3


	10. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: canonical character death, fatal injury, gunshot wounds, blood, post mortem (not explicit)
> 
> Additional character tags: Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry in advance <3

A lifetime, and no time at all, later that night.

Molly ignored two calls from Bart’s. Even if she had wanted to have that conversation, she wasn’t going to answer. She was keeping the line free. John had seemed a bit resigned but more or less himself when he was leaving, but Molly felt an odd kind of tension. It was probably just the memory of how things had been not so long ago, how frightened she had felt for all three of her closest friends. How frightened she was for Sherlock. 

But then again, Sherlock had been in the habit of letting her know where they were, how they were getting on, what time they would be back. Tonight there had been no texts. The last time she hadn’t heard anything from any of them, Sherlock had crashed into the flat in the small hours and given her the fright of her life. Perhaps she was just remembering that, and that was giving her the jitters. 

Still, she stood by the window looking out with her phone in her hand. There were voicemails to pick up now. Given everything that had gone on at work, and then the fact that she had dressed down two members of CID in front of her employer that day, Molly felt like she was just prolonging the inevitable. So what could be the harm, at this point, of leaving it until tomorrow to find out she needed to look for a different job? She knew she would at least feel better if she could spend a good hour telling her tale of woe to Mary and have her friend reassure her.

 _And tell me whatever it is she needs to tell me, at the same time._ Molly watched a car drive down the road, headlights on. _Or ask me whatever she needs to ask me…._

_A lead. On what? Obviously to do with this business with Mary’s old work, but hadn’t that man died in Morocco? If someone is still… after Mary, surely Sherlock wouldn’t ask her to meet him? He wouldn’t lead her into danger like that. He’d run towards it himself. But he’ll protect Mary. They can’t be meeting someone, that must be it. They’re just looking into something, interviewing someone, maybe._

_All three of them? It’s a bit odd._

“Just let them be safe,” she said out loud to herself and whomever might be listening. “Let him be safe.”

Two cars turned the corner at the far end of the street. The first one dark, the next clearly liveried in reflective yellow and blue. Molly’s heart jumped into her throat and she raced for the stairs. 

Molly had imagined the sight which greeted her when she opened the door a hundred times or more. She’d dreaded it in broad daylight and been shocked awake by it at night. Dr John Watson, covered in blood, and the light gone from his eyes. 

Molly froze in the doorway. Rendered speechless by her very worst nightmare manifesting in front of her. Breathing was hard, her airway seemed to be almost closed. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would bruise her from the inside. 

John walked past her into the flat, without a word, she only just got the message past the panic to her limbs in order to move out of the way in time.

“John… John, where is he,” she asked, hearing desperation in her strangled voice. “Where have they taken him, John?”

But he didn’t answer her. He went straight up the stairs. Within moments, Molly heard Rosie start to disturb and then to grumble, as if she had just been woken. She put her foot on the first tread…

“Molly.”

Whipping her head around she found Greg stood on the doorstep, a uniformed officer behind him. She looked down and saw his hand on her arm, but she couldn’t feel it. 

“I’ll stay. You should probably go,” he told her. He looked dreadful. Drawn and wretched and like he had lost every last bit of the hope which she knew drove him on every day. 

“Where is he, Greg?” Molly pleaded with him, not sure now whether her heart was breaking more for the man in front of her, the one upstairs, the baby who was now crying her heart out, or the love of her life, who was surely lost. 

“Bart’s. He’s with her, Molly. Don’t worry,” Greg said.

“Who, Mary?” Molly asked, a painful pang in her middle reminding her she hadn’t given a thought to Mary since seeing her own vision of John covered in Sherlock’s blood come to life. “Is she all right?”

Greg’s brow pinched, his jaw tensed. “She’s dead.” 

Molly’s head was clear and her tummy wasn’t churning. Everything was brighter, a bit louder, a bit faster. But as she strode along the final corridor towards the morgue, scrubbed and lab-coat on, she felt in control. _It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine._

Her eyes found Sherlock’s the instant she set foot into the familiarly cold, low-lit room. His eyes were blank, his expression impassive. Relief swept over her. He held her gaze steadily for a moment, then nodded, and left through the door she had just come through. _It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine._

Mycroft Holmes was stood a foot to the side of where Sherlock had been moments before. His face was entirely unreadable, as ever Molly had known it. He took a breath, let his shoulders relax on the exhale, and settled his gloved hands in front of him on the crooked handle of an umbrella. He wasn’t leaving. Just like before. _It’s fine._

Molly stepped towards the slab. The cold she could feel intensifying was just the refrigerated surface. She reached for the zip of the body bag, held the top tightly between her gloved fingers and drew the zip along.

 _Mary_. _Christ, this is even better than last time. Poor soul, whoever they were._ The opening zip revealed the body still clothed. Blood smeared on the left pulse-point of the neck. _Confirmation of death at the scene. Once again, Doctor Watson’s medical opinion is vital evidence. Neat. Horrible, but neat._ Molly stopped the zip around the navel and opened the bag wide over the chest. The cloth of the t-shirt was soaked in blood, radiating from the obvious entry point of a blade or bullet. She looked up at Mycroft.

“Gunshot. Single. Close range.” He paused, and something terrible crossed his icy features. “No exit wound.”

“Very good,” Molly said. 

She placed her hands side by side on the edge of the slab. She kept her eyes on Sherlock’s brother. She waited. She checked around her, made sure they were alone. Like last time. She waited. 

“I am sorry, Doctor Hooper.”

Molly swallowed. The ground quaked. The air shuddered. Then everything went too still. She didn’t feel another thing in the time which must have passed between her looking into the face of the woman laid out in front of her and her own body making contact with the wall and then the floor of the corridor outside.


	11. He's With Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags: none
> 
> Additional character tags: none

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still sorry <3

Moments after

_“You’ll be all right, sweetheart.”_

_“No I won’t. Not without you…”_

_“You’re all grown up now.”_

_“I still need you.”_

_“You’ve got your own life to lead – don’t spend it looking back.”_

_I’m not looking back, Dad. I never moved forward._

“Oh God, Rosie…” Molly slid further down the wall, blocking out the voices in her mind and trying to crush the raging in her middle with the weight of her chest, which was full of lead. She pulled her legs in, made herself as small as she could, but it only grew bigger, stronger, dwarfing her and smacking her right back to that lost, ruined young woman who knew death too well. She couldn’t draw in enough breath, every little bit of air she pulled in turned into this dreadful wounded sound, like a muted scream, a forever inhale, getting tighter and tighter…

_It’s her. It’s her. Mary’s dead._

A hand on her arm, a solid presence at her side. A living one, she thought, but she almost daren’t look. Through tear-filled eyes she recognised Sherlock, even in the almost darkness around them in the corridor and seeping into every corner of the world. She grabbed for his arm, pushed herself up as he pulled her against his chest. She inhaled the scent of him, the warmth – how could either of them be warm? – and the sensation completely overwhelmed her. She broke down completely, more completely than she ever had, choking, her shoulders heaving, stomach contracting hard enough to make her want to be sick. She could feel Sherlock’s back shaking, every exhale against her shoulder a heave. She clung to him, felt him tighten his hold on her.

If she didn’t open her eyes, she reasoned as she began to win her fight with the roaring pain and to regain some awareness of time and place, perhaps her and Sherlock might never have to face anything without each other again. He’d begun by holding her, now she was holding him; she could feel it.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his cheek now against her hair. “No matter what was arranged. You shouldn’t have to.”

Molly wrapped her arms tighter around him, squeezed her eyes even more tightly shut, just for a second, just for a moment of him. Then she opened her eyes and sat up. Sherlock’s hands covered his face, Molly wiped her cheeks roughly. She was tingling from head to foot, and she knew what that meant.

“I will,” she said. She couldn’t bare the thought of it being anyone else. No matter what the rule book said.

Sherlock looked at her. His eyes were red raw, his skin so pale.

“Will you go home?” Molly asked him, her sore throat tightening again.

“No, I’m staying with you,” he said. “And Mary.” Then, his eyes dropped from her face and Molly looked to see what had caught them. The sleeve of her white coat, where he had taken hold of her when he found her, was smeared with blood. Molly watched as Sherlock pulled the glove off his left hand, then, hesitantly, his right. His fingers were stained dark crimson, almost black. Molly’s heart constricted painfully.

“It should be me,” he said.

“It shouldn’t have to be you,” Molly replied, voicing a deep seated fear now she felt he might understand.

Sherlock’s lips pressed together for a second. “It was meant for me.”

“What was meant for you?”

“The bullet.”

When Molly and Sherlock walked back into the morgue, hands clean and courage minimally gathered, Mycroft Holmes was still there. Stood guard, Molly thought. Sherlock went over to him and they exchanged a few quiet words, before Sherlock left again. Molly knew he was coming back in a minute, but the warmth she knew she would miss did indeed go with him.

Mycroft took a step towards her. “Thank you, doctor,” he said.

“I’m not doing this for you,” she told him, “or anyone. I’m doing it for Mary.”

Mycroft drew himself a little taller and Molly thought she saw some kind of resignation in his face, some hint of annoyance, even. This Holmes brother’s face was no open book, but he underestimated Molly. He nodded to her and went to leave the room. Molly took a fortifying breath, then spoke before he reached the door.

“Please,” she said, “don’t interfere with my work again. You don’t owe me anything.”

She turned to him and he to her. Where Sherlock sighed for the world, his brother barely made his audible.

“However angry Sherlock may be,” he said, “I cannot take the credit in this instance. Dr Whitstable offered you the position for which you applied because she designated you the correct person for the role. She was most aggrieved by your having declined it. She spoke of little else at the duchesses charity gala, so I’m told.”

Molly shook her head. “We’re like little chess pieces to you, aren’t we? Living and working and dying while you chat about us over cocktails. Plotting it all out.”

Even if he hadn’t had anything to do with that job, Molly felt a burning sense of injustice inside. She stared at the zip on the closed body bag, a thousand images in her head.

“Everything is going to change now. Not like last time. This won’t get better,” she said, her voice shaking, thinking _John’s upset, it’s natural, he knows Sherlock didn’t mean for it to happen… but this is so much worse._

“Someone has to look after him,” she said, hoping Mycroft would see how vulnerable his brother was going to be.

The room was silent for a moment. Then Molly heard the slow tap of hard soles on the floor and Mycroft came to stand at her side. She looked at him.

“Dr Hooper, if you might reconsider my original offer?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “You have never and you will never need to pay me. And I won’t lie, not to him.”

The dark eyes of the man in front of her bored into hers and his nose almost wrinkled.

“Sentiment won’t get you far in this world,” he said.

Molly tipped her chin up. “Neither will secrets.”

Watching blood she knew had come from the freezer and not him swirl down the shower drain in her flat hadn’t been a problem at all. She had been glad to see the back of it, glad right down to her bones to see Sherlock padding around barefoot and agitated, rather than laid on the hard pavement, flat out on the slab.

But she knew it would be different tonight. So she showered at the hospital, letting the only just warm water take those final traces away, flush the scent of the morgue off her skin. She let her tears mingle with it, knowing what stayed behind her eyes wasn’t going anywhere. I am glad it was me. Are you glad it was me, Mary?

She had to brace her hand against the chilly tiles as it hit her that every question she had for her friend would go unanswered. _What was your favourite book when you were little? Do you prefer chocolate advent calendars or the ones with little pictures? Which song shall I sing to remind Rosie of you? Do you want another baby? How did you leave everything behind you? What was it like when you met John? Can you read Sherlock like I can? Did you find loving him unavoidable? Do you regret shooting him? Do you know how close you came to killing him? Do you think you deserve everything he has done to keep you safe? Were you waiting to make it up to him? Why has one of you got to take a bullet for the other? How could you leave him? How will I ever thank you? How will I ever make peace with wanting to…?_

Molly let her forehead make contact with the wall next to her hand, forced her voice to stay out of her sobs.

_I’m so sorry, Mary._

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

She went and got a set of scrubs, pulled her still wet hair away from her face and fastened it with an elastic band. There was an old fleece on the back of the office door which no one knew who it belonged to, so she thought she’d borrow that. Disassociation was helping a bit, for now. She’d thrown what she was wearing when her dad died in the bin at the end of her street that same night. Then cried all the next day because she wished she hadn’t. Everything she had worn today, including her lab coat, was folded neatly in her scrub bag.

Pushing the lab door open, she saw the room was empty, the only light coming from the office where she had left her bag and coat. She grabbed the fleece, threaded her arms into the sleeves, drew it closed around herself. As she walked back into the main space, she noticed something. Two coffee mugs, almost full. She walked to the end of the bench they were stood on. Sat on the floor with his back against the cabinet, was Sherlock. Jacket back on but without his coat, his forearms were rested on his bent knees and he starred straight ahead at the cupboards opposite.

Molly walked over to him. She felt one of the coffee cups with the back of her fingers. Stone cold. She lowered herself to the floor and sat next to him, her back on the cupboards too, her knees drawn up in front of her. Slowly, she leant just an inch or so to her right until their arms were touching. His face turned in her direction, but his eyes stayed low, his mouth downturned. She could only just see him in the gloom, but she could feel his sadness. It was theirs.

They sat there for hours. Neither his home nor hers seemed like that. So they stayed in the lab. That was where they existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comfort feels a long way away...
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading. I do apologise if these chapters have been chock-full of spelling and grammar mistakes - it's been a lovely but very busy weekend of writing and getting things uploaded! 
> 
> Take care, all <3


End file.
